MARY  ELEANOR  ANDERSON 


JPoems   and    Biography 

OF 

Mary  Eleanor  Anderson 


BY 
HER   HUSBAND,  GALUSHA  ANDERSON 

Professor  Emeritus,   University  of  Chicago 

Author  of  "The  Story  of  a  Border  City  during  the  Civil 

War,"  "Hitherto  Untold,"  "  When  Neighbors  Were 

Neighbors,"  and    "Science   and   Prayer" 


One  soul  in  two  bodies." 

GREGORY  NAZIANZEN 


BOSTON 
THE  COLONIAL  PRESS 

PUBLISHERS 


PS 
\03C! 
A 


Copyright,  1917 
BY  GALUSHA  ANDERSON 


THE  COLONIAL  PRESS 
C.    H.    SIMONDS    CO.,   BOSTON,   U.    S.   A. 


To  HER  CHILDREN  AND  GRANDCHILDREN, 

AND  TO  ALL  WITH  WHOM  SHE  WORKED  IN  PROMOTING 

MISSIONS,  BOTH  HOME  AND  FOREIGN,  THIS 

VOLUME  IS  AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED. 


FOREWORD 

To  edit  the  poems  and  write  the  biography  of  one's 
wife,  is  a  work  both  delicate  and  difficult.  In  one 
respect  I  was  manifestly  disqualified  for  it,  since  I 
was  a  prejudiced  witness.  For  more  than  fifty-five 
years  we  had  walked  together  in  the  bonds  of  holy 
wedlock.  She  was  the  happy  mother  of  my  children. 
I  fairly  worshipped  the  ground  on  which  she  stood, 
and  her  absence  from  the  earth  had  increased,  rather 
than  abated,  the  ardor  of  my  affection.  But  while  I 
could  not  but  be  prejudiced  in  her  favor,  on  the  other 
hand  no  one,  in  all  the  world,  understood  her  so  well 
as  I.  Divesting  myself  so  far  as  I  could  of  undue 
bias,  I  proceeded  to  edit  some  of  her  poems  and  to 
write  the  story  of  her  life.  In  telling  that  story 
I  have  often  quoted  from  an  autobiographical  sketch, 
which  I  found  among  her  papers,  written,  not  for  the 
public,  but  simply  for  the  eye  of  her  husband  and 
children. 

I  found  it  no  easy  task  to  select  from  her  numerous 
poetical  compositions  her  best  work,  and  in  some  cases 
I  may  have  rejected  what  I  should  have  chosen  and 
edited  what  might  better  have  been  omitted;  but  I 
have  done  my  best. 

As  to   her  biography,   I  have  striven   to   write  it 

vii 


impartially  and  justly,  neither  consciously  covering  up 
defects  nor  unduly  exalting  virtues.  If  I  have  come 
short  in  any  respect,  I  am  sure  it  is  in  setting  forth 
her  real  worth.  In  order  to  avoid  awkward  circum 
locutions  I  have  ordinarily  designated  her  in  the 
biography,  by  her  given  name,  "  Mary."  I  trust  that 
this  will  not  be  offensive  even  to  those  of  fastidious 
taste. 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy 
of  the  editors  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  in  permitting 
me  to  republish  from  its  pages  Mrs.  Anderson's  poem, 
"  Poor  Marie."  I  also  heartily  thank  her  old  school 
mate,  Mrs.  Sophie  Burns  of  Bath,  New  York,  and  also 
those  with  whom  she  was  associated  in  Mission  work, 
for  their  valuable  suggestions. 

GALUSHA  ANDERSON. 

NEWTON  CENTRE,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
October  16,  1917. 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 

THE   POEMS 

PAGE 

DEPARTED  DAYS  ........  i 

POOR  MARIE         ........  i 

GRANDMOTHER'S  HEART        ......  5 

SOUL  LONGINGS  ........  6 

THI<:  MARKET-PLACE    .......  7 

NIGHT   MUSINGS          .......  8 

BLUEBIRDS    .........  10 

PSYCHE'S  WINGS         .         .         .         .         .         .         .11 

NEW  YEAR'S,  1886 12 

THE  WOODLAND  ROSE  .......  14 

MABEL          .........  15 

A  SUNBEAM         ........  18 

DAISIES  AND  CLOVER-TOPS   ......  19 

THISTLE-SWEETNESS     .......  21 

LITTLE  BELGIAN  CHILDREN  ......  23 

TAKING  IN  THE  FLOWERS     ......  24 

How  PEARLS  GROW     .......  26 

CROSSING  THE  STYX   .......  27 

ST.   CECILIA          ........  28 

DEBORAH     .........  29 

WINTER-RAINS    ........  31 

THE  CHRISTMAS-SHEAF       ......  32 

WINTER       .........  34 

WATER-LILIES      ........  36 

LEAF-BUDS           ........  37 

TWILIGHT    .........  39 

THE  OLD  PINE-TREE  BY  THE  GATE      ....  40 

THE  TIDE    .........  42 

ix 


PAGE 

WITH  THE  TIDE  ........  43 

CHRISTMAS,  1915         .......  45 

ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY,  1915  ......  47 

WHAT  THEY  SAY        .......  48 

THOUGHT  QUESTIONINGS      ......  49 

THE  BROOK         ........  50 

MORNING  IN  A  GREAT  CITY  .         .         .         .         .  51 

HOME  AT   NIGHT        .......  52 

THE  SPRINGTIME  COMES  AGAIN  .....  53 

A  BABY  SONG      ........  55 

EVERLASTING  DAYS      .......  55 

FLOWERS    LAID    ON    THE    BREAST    OF    HER    BROTHER 

FREDDIE'S  BODY     .......  56 

DEATH  PASSED  MY  WAY     ......  57 

UNDER  THE  CYPRESS  VINE  ....  .58 

THE  EMPTY  HOUSE     .......  59 

THE  SKYLARK'S  NEST         ......  61 

STAR  AND  LILY  ........  62 

GRASS          .........  63 

GOD'S  PEACE         ........  65 

THE  EMPTY  NEST        .......  65 

THE  OPEN  GRAVE        .......  67 

A  TWILIGHT  SONG       .......  68 

VOICES         .........  69 

THE  SOLDIER  BOY        .......  74 

OUR  COUNTRY     ........  75 

THE  FADING  LINE  OF  BLUE  ......  77 

ECHOES    FROM    THE    CIVIL    WAR    AND     SOME 

OCCASIONAL   POEMS 
BLOOD-ROOT          ........       81 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE      .         .         .         .         .         .         .81 

PEACE          .......  .'84 

THE  AUTUMN  OF  PEACE      ....  .86 

A  DIRGE  OF  SLAVERY  .......       88 

DEDICATION  OF  COLBY  HALL         .....       90 

x 


PAGE 

ARBOR  DAY          ........       91 

AUNT  LIZZIE  AIKEN'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY     .         .       92 

POEMS  DISTINCTIVELY  CHRISTIAN 

PAGE 

WHAT  SHALL  I  RENDER  UNTO  THE  LORD?     ...  99 

ONLY  ONE  TALENT     .......  100 

TRUST  IN  THE  UNSEEN        ......  102 

GOOD-NIGHT         ........  103 

SORROW        .........  104 

SELF-SURRENDER           .......  105 

I  AM  THINE        .         .         .         .         .         .                   .  106 

"  APPREHENDED  OF  CHRIST  JESUS  "        .         .         .         .  108 

"  THE  LIVING  TEMPLE  "......  108 

GOLDEN  BOWLS    ........  109 

GOD  OUR  STRENGTH     .         .         .         .         .         .         .  no 

ILLUMINATE  THE  CROSS        .         .         .         .         .         .  in 

LOVEST  TO  THE  END        .  .  .  .  .  .  .113 

"HE  SHALL  CARRY  THE  LAMBS  IN  His  BOSOM"        .     115 
THE  HEAVENLY  GATES         .         .         .         .         .         .116 

HABAKKUK,  CHAPTER  III    .         .         .         .         .         .118 

CHRIST'S   SACRIFICE     .         .         .         .         .         .         .119 

EASTER  MISSIONARY  HYMN         ...         .         .         .     120 

SHALL  I  BE  THERE?  .......     121 

THE  SMITTEN  ROCK    .......     122 

GOD'S  CHILD  THROUGH  REDEMPTION     ....     124 

THE  HAPPY  DAY         .......     124 

GIVING  MY  HEART        .......     125 

GOD-ATTUNED      ........     126 

THE  FATHER'S  WELCOME    ......     127 

DELIVERANCE  FROM  SIN        ......     128 

THE  SABBATH      ........     129 

JESUS   ADORED      ........     130 

FOR  BAPTISM        ........     132 

OUR  SAVIOUR-KING      .......     133 

DAY  OF  LIGHT  AND  GLADNESS      .....     134 

xi 


LIGHT-HOUSE  LAMPS  .......     135 

THE  GOSPEL  TRIUMPHANT  ......     136 

GOD'S  GLORIOUS  DAY  .         .         .         .         .         .         .137 

A  FRIEND    .........     138 

THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  .......     139 

"  SALVE  CAPUT  CRUENTATUM  "   .         .         .         .         .140 

THE   BIOGRAPHY 

I  ANCESTRY  AND  EARLY  TRAVELS  .         .  145 

II  ADVERSE  INFLUENCES         .         .  .         .  154 

III  MULTIPLICITY  OF  HOMES    .         .  .         .  .164 

IV  SCHOOLS  ATTENDED   .         .         .  .         .  174 
V  GRADUATION,   CHOSEN    PURSUIT,  BAPTISM  AND 

MARRIAGE    .         .         .         .         .         .         .190 

VI     MEETING  NEW  RESPONSIBILITIES       .         .         .  197 

VII     CHANGE  OF  PLACE  AND  OCCUPATION  .         .         .  205 
VIII     LIFE     IN     BROOKLYN,     CHICAGO,     SALEM     AND 

GRANVILLE  .......  212 

IX     RETIREMENT  IN  NEW  ENGLAND         .         .         .  227 

X     MARY'S  LITERARY  WORK  .....  230 

XI     HER  TRAITS  OF  MIND  AND  HEART       .         .         .  237 

APPENDIX          .......  250 


xn 


THE   POEMS 


THE  POEMS 


DEPARTED  DAYS 

LIKE  the  faint  perfume  of  a  drawer, 
Where  rose-leaves  were,  but  are  no  more, 
The  sweetness  of  departed  days 
Lingers  through  all  our  lives  and  ways. 

As  when  across  a  maze  of  flowers, 

The   south-wind    wafts    the   early    showers, 

Not  several  sweetnesses  he  brings, 

But  mingled  odors  load  his  wings. 

So  from  the  past  there  gently  steals 
A  subtle  joy,  he  knows  who  feels; 
Not  many  memories  fill  his  soul; 
But  the  blest  influence  of  the  whole. 


POOR  MARIE 

DOWN  the  long  hill  came  poor  Marie, 

Her  basket  on  her  head, 
The  tears  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks 

And  flecked  her  kerchief  red, 


And  every  tear  bewept  the  day 

When  Wilhelm  marched  to  France  away. 

The  gurgle  of  the  mountain  spring, 

As  from  the  wooden  spout 
The  water,  like  a  joyous  child, 

Leaped  laughing,  prattling  out, 
Cried  Wilhelm!  Wilhelm!  in  her  ears, 
Till  she  could  hardly  see  for  tears. 

She  wiped  them  with  her  apron  blue, 
And  sought  her  heart  to  cheer. 

"  Why  should  I  weep  since  he  is  true, 
Perchance  may  soon  be  here?" 

But  the  light  harebell  shook  its  head 

At  every  cheerful  word  she  said. 

In  clefts  and  crannies  of  the  rock 
Which  walls  the  narrow  street, 

The  bluebell  and  the  heatherbell 
Cling  fast  with  slender  feet, 

And,  with  slight  vines  and  tufts  of  grass, 

Beckon  and  nod  to  all  who  pass. 

"O  wayside  darlings!"  cried  Marie, 
"  He  praised  my  eyes  of  blue, 

When  will  he  come  to  say  again 
That  they  shine  bright  as  you? 

Here,  let  me  kiss  you  where  you  stand, 

I  will  not  touch  you  with  my  hand." 


The  light  wind  sent  a  shiver  down 
Through  all  the  garlands  green, 

And  shook  the  dewdrops  from  the  cups 
Of  flowers  that  grew  between. 

On  Marie's  face  the  drops  were  shed 

Like  mourners'  tears  upon  the  dead. 

Down  to  the  market-place  she  came 

With  weary  step  and  slow, 
The  heaps  of  fruit  and  stands  of  flowers 

Were  blooming  in  a  row, 
And  everywhere  hung  overhead 
Wreaths  of  immortelles  for  the  dead. 

The  people  in  an  anxious  crowd 
Filled  all  the  street  and  square; 

You  might  have  heard  a  passing  cloud, 
It  was  so  silent  there, 

As  from  the  church-steps  some  one  read 

The  list  of  wounded  men  and  dead. 

For  in  the  glorious  battle  fought 

And  won  but  yesterday 
Were  half  the  men  of  that  small  town, 

The  brown-haired  and  the  gray. 
Through  the  rapt  throng  poor  Marie  pressed, 
To  quake  and  listen  with  the  rest. 

She  heard  a  whisper,  as  she  passed, 
That  burned  her  like  a  flame. 


"  Poor,  poor  Marie!"  it  said;  she  turned 

To  see  from  whence  it  came. 
Hope  kissed  her  pallid  lips,  and  fled. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  cried,  "  oh,  is  he  dead?" 

They  bear  a  woman  down  the  street: 
"His  mother,  give  her  air!" 

She  knows  the  kerchief  and  the  gown, 
She  knows  the  ashen  hair. 

"  Mother,  let  me  die,  too,"  she  moans, 

And  senseless  falls  upon  the  stones. 

Up  the  long  hill  climbed  poor  Marie, 

Her  stony  eyes  were  dry. 
The  heart  beneath  the  kerchief  gay 

Breaking,  could  only  sigh. 
One  thought  spun  ceaseless  in  her  head, 
"  Why  do  I  live  when  he  is  dead?" 

Fainting  she  leaned  against  the  rock, 
The.  bluebells  kissed  her  face. 

"  He  called  my  eyes  as  blue  as  these 
Here  in  this  very  place; — 

Here  in  this  very  place,"  she  said, 

"  And  still  they  bloom  while  he  is  dead." 


First  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  The  scene  of 
this  poem  was  Heidelberg.  Germany.  It  was  written  soon 
after  the  Franco-German  war  of  1870. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  HEART 

GRANDMOTHER  stands  in  the  sunny  door, 
Where  blossom  the  roses,  red  and  white, 
She  has  gathered  them  seventy  times  before, 
But  she  greets  them  ever  with  fresh  delight. 

Grandmother's  eyes  may  be  slow  to  see, 
Grandmother's  hair  may  have  lost  its  curl, 
But  as  she  stands  by  the  old  rose-tree, 
Grandmother's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  girl. 

Gently  she  breaks  from  their  bending  stem 
The  fairest  buds  of  the  perfumed  wreath, 
Tucks  them  under  her  neckerchief  hem, 
With  a  smile  that  has  not  a  shade  of  grief. 

Grandmother's  ears  hear  the  bobolink  yet, 
Oriole  sings  her  his  song  so  gay, 
And  well  she  knows  that  the  thrush  has  set 
His  nest  in  the  elm-tree  across  the  way. 

Grandmother  knows  where  the  wood  flowers  bloom, 
Where  violets  courtesy  in  meadows  cold, 
Where  blue  lakes  gleam  through  the  forest  gloom, 
Then  why  should  grandmother's  heart  be  old? 

Grandmother  hums  with  her  faltering  voice, 
An  old,  old  song  in  the  sunny  day, 


It  bids  her  heart  leap  up  and  rejoice, 
And  she  smiles  with  the  joy  of  yesterday. 

They  are  not  old  that  around  her  rise, 
The  little  brother  of  long  ago, 
The  fair  young  mother  in  Paradise, 
And  the  children  who  never  older  grow. 

Soon  when  the  tale  of  her  years  is  told, 
The  tall,  fair  angels  of  endless  youth, 
Shall  gently  loosen  the  garment  old, 
And  carry  to  heaven  her  heart  of  truth. 

There  He  shall  meet  her  with  greeting  mild, 
Who  so  long  led  her  by  staff  and  rod, 
"  Thou  hadst  the  heart  of  a  child, 
Come  in;  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God." 

SOUL  LONGINGS 

Is  there  nothing  here  but  hope? 

No  fruition? 
Is  but  in  the  night  to  grope 

Our  condition? 
And  for  greater  light  and  scope 

Our  petition? 

Can  no  real  good  be  found 

In  all  pleasure? 
Can  we  own  of  house  or  ground 

But  our  measure? 


Are  the  toys,  that  us  surround, 
All  our  treasure? 

Are  we  made  to  think  and  long, 

And  expire? 
With   our  hearts  burnt  out  by  wrong 

As  a  fire? 
Is  life  but  a  plaintive  song 

For  the  lyre? 

In  my  soul  there  is  a  cry, 

Ceases  never, 
For  that  life  more  blest  and  high, 

The  forever, 
Where  attainment  shall  be  nigh 

The  endeavor. 

THE  MARKET-PLACE 

IN  the  heart  of  the  quaint  old  town, 

Looks  the  church  on  the  market  down, 

Which  glows  with  fruit  and  blossoms  with  flowers, 

Bright  setting  for  the  gray  old  towers. 

Sounds  of  traffic  and  trade  are  loud, 
Shrill  the  voice  of  the  busy  crowd, 
From  the  belfry  the  swallows  call, 
The  church  stands  silent  'mid  them  all. 

Grief  and  happiness  come  and  go, 
Life  and  death  in  the  square  below, 


The  chimes  above  reflect  them  well 
In  marriage  peal  and  funeral  knell. 

Within  its  walls  the  casual  tread 
Wakens  the  echoes  overhead, 
Which,  in  a  stillness  so  profound, 
Rise,  startled,  at  the  slightest  sound. 

And  still  from  time  to  time  there  come 
Faint  murmurs  of  the  outside  hum, 
Which,  like  the  sunshine's  dusty  beams, 
Are  dim  as  memories  of  dreams. 

In  sunny  light  and  melody 
The  belfry  soars  into  the  sky, 
'Mid  chime  of  bell  and  song  of  bird 
The  worldly  din  is  all  unheard. 

Could  I  but  bear  so  still  a  heart 

In  busy  crowd  and  noisy  mart, 

So  crowned  with  song,  so  hushed  with  prayer, 

I  should  be  happy  everywhere. 


NIGHT  MUSINGS 

SWEET  fields  and  hills,  all  wrapt  in  snow, 
Cold,  bitter  cold,  each  hour  ye  grow, 
Cold  as  if  roses  ne'er  did  blow. 


The  moon,  ere  yet  the  day  is  done, 
To  tell  her  ros'ry  has  begun, 
Slipping  the  star-beads  one  by  one. 

Still  as  some  white-stoled  saint  she  goes 
At  midnight  penance  through  the  snows, 
And,  going,  bright  and  brighter  grows. 

No  passing  cloud  is  in  the  air, 
But  heaven,  all  unveiled  and  fair, 
Flashes  new  beauties  everywhere. 

Past  snowy  plains,  as  moonbeams  white, 
Past  all  the  shadowy  forms  of  light, 
In  star-beams  sketched  upon  the  night, 

I  gaze  into  a  distance  far, 

Beyond  where  shines  the  outside  star, 

That  gems  with  light  night's  azure  car. 

I  see  a  vault  with  vastness  black, 
From  which  no  sunbeam  shineth  back, 
Nor  e'en  the  wandering  comet's  track. 

So,  far  below  all  joy  and  woe, 

Past  thoughts  which  come,  and  words  which  go, 

A  farther  deep  we  feel  and  know, 

Hidden  in  darkness  so  profound 

That  man,  though  searching,  ne'er  has  found 

The  line  which  his  own  soul  doth  bound. 


What  shall  this  outside  region  be, 
Stretching  beyond  the  world  we  see, 
But  thy  broad  land,  eternity? 


BLUEBIRDS 

IN  the  bare  trees 

Bluebirds  are  swinging, 
To  the  chill  breeze 

Cheerily  singing; 
Prophets  of  Spring 

Ere  springtime  is  here, 
Where  did  they  learn 

The  time  of  the  year? 

Blossoms  and  buds 

Quietly  sleeping, 
Only  the  grass 

Greening  and  creeping, 
Hardly  a  brook 

Escaped  from  its  chain, 
But  the  cold  night 

Recaptures  again. 

Deep  in  the  ground 
Snow-drops  are  lying, 

Not  one  the  storm 
Dreams  of  defying. 

Black  are  the  clouds, 

10 

4 


Yet  bluebirds  are  here, 
Filling  the  woods 
With  songs  loud  and  clear. 

Ye,  whose  hearts  wake, 

Though  the  earth  slumbers; 
Ye,  who  have  learned 

Heavenly  numbers; 
Dark  are  the  days, 

Yet  joyfully  sing, 
Loudly  and  clear, 

The  Prophets  of  Spring. 


PSYCHE'S  WINGS 

FLIT,  birds  of  eventide, 

On  the  swift  wing, 
Summer  is  in  her  pride, 

Earth  blossoming; 
Level  the  shadows  fly, 

Naught  breathes  but  rest, 
Fly,  happy  warblers,  fly 

Home  to  the  nest. 

Stretch  thy  strong  'pinions  now, 
Soul,  toward  the  skies, 

What  hushes  all  below 
Bids  thee  arise, 

ii 


Far  past  the  setting  sun 

Press  thou  thy  way; 
His  daily  race  is  run, 

Naught  bounds  thy  day. 

Lift  up  thy  snow-white  wings, 

Washed  in  His  blood, 
Who  bore  for  thee  death's  stings, 

Scorn  and  the  rood; 
Fly,  soul,  to  meet  Him,  where 

Sin  cannot  come, 
Happy  and  quiet  there, 

Safe  in  thy  home. 

Now  at  this  sunset  hour, 

Labor  all  done, 
Use  thou  the  mighty  power, 

Given  thee  alone; 
Birds  to  their  branches  fly, 

Swift  comes  the  night, 
To  heavenward-lifted  eye 

Darkness  is  light. 


NEW  YEAR'S,   1886 

HERE  we  change  horses!     From  my  side 
Climbs  down  my  faithful  twelvemonth's  guide 
Through  icebound  steppes  and  meadows  pied. 

12 


Already,  in  the  ghostly  night, 

'Mid  falling  snows,  his  surtout  white, 

Has  vanished  like  a  wraith  from  sight. 

And,  in  his  stead,  a  youthful  form 
Gleams  white  against  the  dark'ning  storm, 
His  check  is  red,  his  breath  is  warm. 

Away!    away!     Each  flying  steed 
Devours  the  road  with  headlong  speed, 
And  still  their  swifter  shadows  lead. 

Whither,  O  driver,  dost  thou  know? 
Dost  see,  far  peering  through  the  snow, 
Bright  lights  of  joy,  dull  gleams  of  woe? 

He  answers  not  by  word  or  sign, 

This  dumb,  unheeding  guide  of  mine, 

But  cracks  the  whip  and  shakes  the  line. 

Onward,  still  onward  as  before, 
We  hasten  to  an  unknown  shore, 
This  much  I  know;  and  know  no  more. 

This  much  I  know,  yet  without  dread 
I  watch  the  landscape  form  ahead, 
I  hear  the  horses'  rapid  tread. 

For,  lower  the  cloud  or  shine  the  sun, 
The  journey,  long  ago  begun, 
Sooner  or  later  will  be  done. 


And  whensoever  it  may  end, 

To  meet  me  waits,  as  I  descend, 

With  outstretched  arms  my  dearest  Friend. 

Him  have  I  ridden  far  to  meet, 
My  heart  outstrips  the  flying  feet, 
That  on  the  icy  pavement  beat. 

Look  forward,  driver,  canst  thou  see 
If  near  at  hand  He  waits  for  me, 
Or  ride  I  all  this  year  with  thee? 

See'st  thou  my  Father's  open  door, 
Where  this  wild  journey  will  be  o'er, 
Over  and  done  forevermore? 

He  answers  not.     Far  in  the  west,  — 
How  far  I  ask  not;  God  knows  best, — 
Gleam  the  glad  lights  of  home  and  rest. 


THE  WOODLAND  ROSE 

WHEN  the  early  flowers  are  dead, 
O'er  their  idust  no  tear  is  shed, 
Since  the  wood-rose  lives  instead. 

Sparks  of  bloom  upon  the  spray, 
Fireflies  that  shine  by  day, 
Seem  its  half-blown  buds  alway. 


Where  into  the  sunny  glade 
Forest  paths  pass  out  of  shade, 
There  it  loves  to  ope  and  fade; 

And  it  spreads  so  lightly  there 

Leaves,  which  droop  'mid  roadside  glare, 

That  it  seems  to  float  in  air. 

» 

With  five  fragrant  wings  around, 
It  would  fain  part  from  the  ground, 
Found  it  not  itself  stem-bound. 

Here  the  wandering  butterfly, 
Flitting  like  a  sunbeam  by, 
Drinks  its  little  goblet  dry. 

Thence  the  wood-bee,  robber  bold, 

Yellow  with  its  rifled  gold, 

Fills  with  sweets  his  hive-tree  old. 

Of  all  lives  so  glad  and  free, 
Amid  sweets  and  minstrelsy, 
Give  thy  life,  O  rose,  to  me. 


MABEL 

WHAT  brings  thee  down  the  lane  so  late, 

Mabel,   Mabel, 
What  brings  thee  down  the  lane  so  late? 

15 


Why  in  the  starlight  dost  thou  wait, 
Who  comes  to  meet  thee  at  the  gate, 
Mabel? 

The  sea-breeze  through  the  garden  came, 

Mother,  Mother, 
It  seemed  to  call  me  by  my  name, 
The  north-light  waved  a  beckoning  flame, 
'Tis  these,  not  me,  that  thou  must  blame, 

Mother. 

Why  didst  thou  rove  so  far  away, 

Mabel,  Mabel? 

Tis  maidenly  at  home  to  stay, 
And  not  amid  the  shadows  gray 
Of  starlit  hedges  thus  to  stray, 

Mabel. 

I  heard  a  voice  across  the  sea, 

Mother,  Mother, 

Call  through  the  open  door  to  me, 
Yes,  calling  once,  twice,  thrice  for  me, 
To  answer  were  but  maidenly, 

Mother. 

'Twas  but  the  sighing  of  the  wave, 

Mabel,  Mabel, 

Thy  love  lies  silent  in  his  grave, 
The  jewel  of  some  starless  cave, 
And  o'er  his  head  the  waters  rave, 

Mabel. 

16 


Why  in  the  dew  dost  linger  yet, 

Mabel,  Mabel? 

The  wind  is  up,  the  moon  has  set, 
Thy  hands  are  cold,  thy  locks  are  wet, 
Come  home,  perchance  thou  may'st  forget, 

Mabel. 

Forget!    and  thou  a  woman,  too, 

Mother,  Mother, 

Is  that  what  thou  wouldst  have  me  do? 
Nay,  when  my  father  came  to  woo, 
Did'st  thou  not  swear  to  aye  be  true, 

Mother? 

Forget!   when  every  little  rose, 

Mother,  Mother, 

That  fragrant  in  the  hedgerow  blows, 
Our  parting  saw,  my  promise  knows, 
Each  one  would  shame  me,  where  it  glows, 

Mother. 

Nay,  rather  would  that  I  were  dead, 

Mother,   Mother, 

The  wild  surf  moaning  by  my  bed, 
Here  where  the  pitying  rose  might  shed 
Its  leaves  like  blessings  on  my  head, 

Mother. 

Here,  true  in  death,  though  desolate, 
Mother,  Mother, 

17 


Let  me  lie  where  he  bade  me  wait, 
Should  he  come  early  or  come  late, 
Among  the  roses  at  the  gate, 
Mother. 


A   SUNBEAM 

INTO  a  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
A  sunbeam  crept  athwart  the  gloom, 
And  lay,  a  magic  golden  ring, 
Upon  a  couch  of  suffering. 

To  fevered  brain  and  weary  eyes, 

It  came,  a  rapture  of  surprise; 

To  sinking  mind  and  wandering  thought, 

A  dream  of  life  and  joy  it  brought. 

"  When  through  my  window  shines  the  sun," 
She  said,  "  the  springtime  has  begun; 
All  winter  long  too  far  and  shy 
He  is  to  visit  such  as  I. 

"  But  when  the  bluebirds  sing  about 
The  garden  trees,  and  winds  are  out, 
He  round  the  corner  creeps  and  smiles 
With  joy  that  all  my  soul  beguiles. 

"  Now  hence,  ye  dark  delirious  dreams, 
Bright,  in  your  stead,  the  crocus  gleams, 

18 


And  up  and  down  upon  the  wall 
Nod  hyacinths  and  violets  small. 

"  Windflowers,  whene'er  I  close  my  eyes, 
Shall,  painted  on  the  lids,  arise, 
And  all  sweet  blooms  of  wood  and  dell 
Chase  far  these  visions  wild  and  fell." 

Then  to  her  sad  and  darkened  soul 
A  thought  of  God,  like  sunshine,  stole: 
"  He  who  calls  back  the  flowers,"  cried  she, 
"  Surely  has  not  forgotten  me. 

"  All  through  the  winter's  cold  and  gloom 

I  lay,  alive,  as  in  a  tomb, 

As  sad,  as  dark,  as  far  from  God 

As  if  already  'neath  the  sod. 

"  But  now  a  sunbeam  from  the  skies 
Calls  me,  with  snowdrops,  to  arise; 
Wide  open  every  casement  fling, 
I  live,  I  breathe,  for  it  is  spring." 

DAISIES  AND   CLOVER-TOPS 

I  HAD  a  dream  of  springtime, 
In  the  long  winter  night, 
When  earth  was  lost  in  darkness, 
And  heaven  alone  was  bright  — 
A  dream  of  fields  of  clover, 
Of  daisies  white  and  small, 

19 


Of  breezes  faint  with  odor, 
And  blue  sky  over  all. 

Pink  balls  of  bloom  and  honey, 
Now  drenched  with  morning  dew, 
Now  to  the  wild  bee  nodding, 
The  springtime  lives  in  you. 

Through  all  the  dreary  winter, 
Your  sweetness  underground 
Fills  the  faint  heart  with  courage, 
Makes  our  slow  pulses  bound. 

Fair  daisies  tipped  with  morning, 
Crowned  with  a  golden  crown, 
Like  dormice  soundly  sleeping 
In  nests  so  snug  and  brown, 

I  see  you  through  the  snow-drifts, 
I  see  you,  or  I  dream, 
In  rose-tints  of  the  evening, 
And  sunlight's  yellow  gleam. 

Oh!  fields  of  blooming  clover! 

Oh!  daisies  small  and  white! 

Oh!  breezes  faint  with  odor! 

Oh!  sweetness  of  delight! 

Oh!    loveliness  and  beauty, 
If  you  from  earth  had  fled, 
The  clover-tops  and  daisies 
Might  call  you  from  the  dead. 

20 


THISTLE  -  SWEETNESS 

THEY  sauntered  down  the  sunny  lane, 
The  lady  and  her  lover; 
The  roadside  was  a  wild  of  bloom, 
The  fields  were  sweet  with  clover. 

Through  tangled  hedge  and  meadow  green, 
Blithe  rang  the  blackbird's  whistle; 
Apart,  in  solitary  pride, 
Stood  here  and  there  a  thistle. 

Fair  lady,  cried  the  youth,  I  would 
The  birds  and  flowers  might  woo  thee 
To  listen,  for  a  moment's  space, 
To  me  that  humbly  sues  thee. 

But  still  the  lady  turned  her  head, 
And  cried,  Nay,  cease  thy  pleading; 
Find  rather  in  the  thistle-flower 
A  lesson  for  thy  reading. 

See  how  she  ever  stands  apart, 
Her  robe  of  thorns  around  her; 
He  who  would  pluck  her  purple  bloom 
Soon  rues  that  he  has  found  her. 

I  too  am  fain  to  dwell  alone, 
So  strive  no  more  to  woo  me, 

21 


Twere  quite  in  vain  for  bird  or  flower, 
Angel  or  man  to  sue  me. 

Lady,  the  thistle  in  its  heart 
Stores  honey  sweet  as  roses, 
The  wild  bee  loves  her  better  far 
Than  half  the  softer  posies. 

He  does  not  care  how  many  thorns 
Warn  others  from  the  treasure, 
But  drinks  from  out  her  perfumed  cup 
Contentment  without  measure. 

I,  like  the  wild  bee,  would  aspire 
To  leave  the  crowd  behind  me, 
And  solitary  drink  the  cup 
Of  happiness  assigned  me. 

Nay,  frown  not,  lady,  that  I  long 
To  read  in  full  completeness 
The  answer  to  that  riddle  dark, 
The  key  to  thistle-sweetness. 

Why  then,  she  cried,  with  sudden  smile, 
Since  you'll  take  no  dismissal, 
It  were  a  shame  that  I  should  be 
More  cruel  than  a  thistle. 


22 


LITTLE  BELGIAN  CHILDREN 

This  heart-song  was  copied  throughout  the  English- 
speaking  world. 

POOR  little  baby  children, 

Ten  thousand,  four  years  old; 

And  all  of  them  are  hungry! 
And  all  of  them  are  cold! 

They  flee,  like  frantic  lambkins, 
When  the  wolf  is  in  the  fold. 

There  is  no  place,  no  corner, 

Where  they  may  lay  their  head. 

They're  crying  for  their  supper; 
They're  crying  for  their  bed. 

They  dare  not  look  behind  them, 
Where  the  angry  sky  is  red. 

The  frightened  little  children 

Cling  to  their  mother's  gown. 
Her  arms  are  full  of  babies, 

She  cannot  put  them  down; 
She  drags  the  toddlers  with  her 

Away  from  the  burning  town. 

The  fields  are  full  of  cannon, 
There's  neither  milk  nor  bread; 

23 


A   rattling  vulture  airship 

Is  hovering  overhead, 
And  in  the  freezing  trenches 

Lie  their  fathers,  stark  and  dead. 

Bring  freely  forth,  ye  Christians, 
Your  frankincense  and  gold; 

Christ  calls  you  to  the  rescue 
(He  once  was  four  years  old) 

To  save  His  little  children 

From  the  famine  and  from  cold. 


TAKING  IN   THE   FLOWERS 

WHEN  come  the  days  of  early  frost^ 

Ere  golden  leaves  turn  brown, 
When  apples  in  the  orchard  grass 

Fail  red  and  ripe  adown, 
\Vhile  still  the  drowsy  world  is  fair 

Rise,  Flora,  and  begin 
With  gentle  hand  and  tender  care 

To  bring  the  flowers  in. 

The  fuchsia  with  its  pendent  gems, 
Pale  roses  with  sweet  lips, 

Lilies  as  white  as  'gainst  the  sky 
Shine  sun-lit  sails  of  ships. 

Carnations,  drifted  isles  of  spice, 
That  woo  us  with  their  breath, 

24 


Acacia  with  her  golden  hair 
Too  beautiful  for  death. 

Come,  bring  them  in,  the  tender  ones, 

Ere,  like  a  priest,  the  frost 
Strew  them,  the  embers,  black  and  seared, 

Of  his  great  holocaust; 
Before  the  fury  of  the  wind 

And  the  devouring  rain 
Leave  of  their  beauty  on  the  walks 

Only  a  clinging  stain. 

Ah!    bring  them  in,  and  softly  lay 

The  lesson  to  thy  heart; 
Twill  prove  an  anodyne  of  pain, 

Perchance  may  heal  the  smart. 
Thou,  who  dost  shield  thy  tender  rose, 

Remember,   and  with  shame, 
That  thou  hast  murmured  at  the  Lord 

Because  He  did  the  same. 

Did  He  not  see  the  evil  day, 

The  beating  rain  of  sin, 
The  frosts  of  unbelief  and  care, 

And  take  His  flowers  in? 
Though  howling  sorrow  shake  thy  soul 

From  root  to  topmost  leaf, 
The  safety  of  God's  hidden  ones 

May  comfort  e'en  thy  grief. 


HOW  PEARLS  GROW 

FATHOMS  deep  in  the  quiet  sea, 
The  pearls  are  growing  silently, 
Growing,  in  darkness,  round  and  white 
With  fold  on  fold  of  silv'ry  light. 

The  moonlight  floods  the  summer  sky, 
But  not  one  beam  falls  where  they  lie, 
Yet  drops  of  moonlight,  such  as  these, 
Are  only  found  beneath  the  seas. 

Wouldst  know  how  pearls  and  oysters  dwell 
So  diff'rent  in  the  selfsame  shell? 
Wouldst  know  whence  come  these  wonders  bright 
To  grace  the  dusky  ear  with  light? 

Then  if  the  comfort  of  thy  life 
Is  vanquished  by  some  petty  strife, 
Some  worthless  thought,  some  grain  of  sand, 
Thou  art  the  one  to  understand,  — 

For  this  is  how  pearls  come  to  be 
Fathoms  deep  in  the  quiet  sea; 
This  is  how  pearls  and  oysters  dwell, 
So  diff'rent  in  the  selfsame  shell. 


26 


CROSSING  THE   STYX 

IN  the  plaintive  old-time  story, 
Stands  the  boatman  stern  and  hoary, 

Ready  every  soul  to  meet; 
Which,  with  cries  and  bitter  weeping, 
From  all  love  and  love's  fond  keeping 

Turns  with  backward,  ling'ring  feet. 

Young  and  old  alike  all  groping 
In  the  dark,  for  nothing  hoping, 

Throng  to  meet  him  on  the  shore; 
Then  the  still  and  sullen  river, 
Without  ripple,  without  shiver, 

Silently  they  ferry  o'er. 

As  its  clammy  mists  grow  thicker, 
And  the  fading  sunbeams  flicker 

Ever  fainter  through  the  gloom, 
Close  upon  each  earthly  pleasure, 
Every  heart's  best  hope  and  treasure, 

The  black  portals  of  the  tomb. 

Hearts,  which  cease  at  length  to  languish, 
Lose,  with  all  they  love,  their  anguish 

In  a  calm  more  dead  than  they. 
Without  yesterday  or  morrow, 
Seeing,  with  departing  sorrow, 

Hope's  bright  garments  float  away. 

27 


But  since  came  the  blest  evangel, 
Waits  there  now  a  helping  angel 

Where  old  Charon  stood  of  yore; 
And,  across  the  shaded  region, 
Gleams  from  pearly  gates  Elysian 

Fleck  each  turbid  billow  o'er. 

So,  the  dying  vision  turning 
Upward  with  a  heavenly  yearning, 

Meets  full  often  radiant  eyes; 
Sees  there  love  which  changes  never, 
Hope,  unclouded  now  forever, 

Faith,  triumphant  in  the  skies. 


ST.    CECILIA 

This  poem  was  suggested  from  looking  at  the  tradi 
tional  portrait  of  this  saint  and  patroness  of  music,  as 
she  stands,  her  lyre  set  down  at  her  feet,  intently  looking 
up  into  heaven. 

FOR  thee  the  angels  sing,  sweet  soul, 

And  hushed  is  thy  forgotten  lyre, 

All  earthly  music  dies  away 

When  praise  attunes  those  lips  of  fire. 

As  when  the  brooklet  finds  the  sea, 
Its  song  is  lost  forevermore, 
Before  that  glorious  symphony 
Whose  deep  vibrations  shake  the  shore. 

28 


Who  praises  God  to  heaven  draws  near; 
There  is  no  wonder  in  thine  eyes, 
Thy  soul,  that  joins  the  angels'  hymn, 
Feels  at  their  presence  no  surprise. 

Yet  e'en  thy  silence  has  a  voice 
Sweeter  than  melody  could  be, 
Thou  gazest  heavenward,  and  we  long 
To  be  all  eye  and  ear  with  thee. 

Like  thee  the  soul  cannot  express 
Its  highest  thought  by  lyre  and  tongue; 
But  rapt  in  ecstasy  stands  mute, 
Leaving  its  noblest  songs  unsung. 

Yet  there  are  silences  that  wake 
Feelings  which  words  could  never  reach, 
When  soul  draws  near  to  soul  on  wings 
That  soar  above  the  bounds  of  speech. 


DEBORAH 

Suggested    by    a    discussion    in    the    Boston    Baptist 
Ministers'    Conference. 

UNDER  the  palm-tree  was  her  seat, 

Where,  amid  trial  and  defeat, 

The  land  learned  wisdom  at  her  feet. 

29 


Her  fearless,  future-piercing  eye 
Leaped  past  the  thronging  danger  njgh 
To  vict'ry,  coming  by  and  by. 

Her  war-cry,  like  a  tocsin  bell, 

Arousing  captive  Israel, 

Rang  out  the  fierce  oppressor's  knell. 

Down  through  the  ages  rolls  along 
The  mighty  torrent  of  her  song, 
Like  Kishon's  river  deep  and  strong. 

A  thousand  generations  bless 
This  war-inspiring  prophetess, 
"  Mother  in  Israel,"  nathless. 

None  censure  her  heroic  deed, 
When,  in  its  hour  of  sternest  need, 
Her  country  from  the  yoke  she  freed. 

So  now  when  woman  claims  the  right 
To  battle  with  the  powers  of  night, 
Cry,  "  Welcome,  sisters,  to  the  fight!" 

Who  knows,  perchance  ye  yet  may  bless 
The  day,  when  Israel's  distress 
To  soldier  changed  the  prophetess. 


WINTER -RAINS 

AH!   e'en  the  Winter,  at  the  heart, 

Is  not  all  cold; 
Though  he  be  wrapped  in  ice  and  rime, 

Fold  upon  fold, 
The  sighing  of  the  south-wind  finds 

A  way  through  all, 
And,  melting  every  barrier  down, 

The  warm  tears  fall. 

The  Winter  has  a  loving  heart 

Ye  little  know, 
Who  only  mark  the  chilling  winds, 

The  frost  and  snow; 
He  loves  full  well  the  tangled  dells 

Where   rabbits   hide, 
All  the  fine  tracery  of  the  woods, 

Though  brown  and  dried. 

His  very  breath  upon  the  pane 

Reveals  his  heart, 
All  the  small  beauties  of  the  glade 

There  bear  their  part; 
The  tender  mosses  and  the  ferns 

Are  limned  so  fair, 
That  little  children  stretch  their  hands 

To  pluck  them  there. 


All  night,  adown  the  half-thawed  street, 

The  waters  glide, 
Melting  the  ice  and  snow  they  meet, 

To  swell  the  tide. 
Slipping  and  sliding  out  of  sight, 

To  reach  the  sea, 
What  rapture  on  a  winter's  night 

To  be  frost  free! 

Not  with  the  merry  splash  of  showers 

Of  summer-time; 
But  plodding  on  as  one  who  toils 

'Mid  mud  and  grime; 
Yet  happy  at  the  appointed  task, 

Whate'er  it  be, 
Knowing  that  power  to  do  one's  work 

Is   liberty. 


THE  CHRISTMAS -SHEAF 

Ii4  brief  Norwegian  summers, 
How  blithely  laughs  the  sun, 
How  blithely  laugh  the  waters 
That  down  the  hillsides  run, 
Till  broad  fiords  receive  them 
To  silence,  one  by  one. 

How  green  the  little  valleys 
That  hide  among  the  hills; 

32 


How  spicy  sweet  the  fragrance 
The  dark  pine  wood  distills; 
How  hushed  the  Sabbath  stillness 
Which  all  its  arches  fills! 

Glowing  with  golden  beauty 
The  ripened  wheat-fields  shine, 
The  poppies  and  the  corn-flowers 
About  them  spring  and  twine, 
Like  an  illumined  border 
Round  text  of  love  divine. 

No  wonder  that  the  harvest 
Should  stand  so  stout  and  fair; 
The  birds  have  sung  their  blessing 
Above  it  everywhere, 
Have  warbled  charms  of  blessing 
O'er  sunshine,  dew  and  air. 

But  when  the  sheaves  are  gathered 

Upon  the  creaking  wain, 

The  birds  all  sing  as  loudly 

As  robins  in  spring  rain; 

They  know  that  they  at  Christmas 

Shall  feast  upon  the  grain. 

The  last  sheaf  of  the  harvest 
Stands  in  the  barn  apart, 
Its  ripeness  and  its  fullness 
Are  not  for  house  or  mart; 

33 


The  others  feed  man's  hunger, 
But  this  shall  feed  his  heart. 

For  when  the  bitter  winter 
Brings  back  the  Christmas  tide, 
In  every  snowy  garden 
Through  all  the  country  side, 
From  palace  unto  cottage, 
The  Christmas-sheaf  is  tied. 

Then  from  their  hiding-places 
In  hedge  and  thicket  brown, 
From  out  the  twisted  gables 
And  chimneys  of  the  town, 
From  rocky  clefts  and  crannies 
The  birds  come  flocking  down. 

They  eat,  most  gladly  welcome, 
One  thankful  lay  they  sing, 
A  prophecy  and  blessing 
To  rich  and  poor  they  bring, 
A  prophecy  of  sunshine, 
Of  plenty  and  of  spring. 


WINTER 

COLD  blows  the  bitter  wind, 
Freezing  the  blue  lakes  o'er, 
Snowflakes  are  in  the  air, 
Snowbirds  are  at  the  door. 

34 


Dark  are  the  dreary  days, 
Long  is  the  dreary  night, 
Fled  with  the  singing  birds 
All  beauty  and  delight. 

Even  the  brook's  last  song, 
Smothered,  has  passed  away, 
Still  is  the  snowy  night, 
Silent  the  leaden  day. 

Only  with  fiercer  life, 
Since  summer  calms  are  o'er, 
The  ocean's  mighty  pulse 
Beats  ceaseless  on  the  shore. 

Only  the  moaning  wind 
Utters  its  voice  aloud, 
And,  from  earth's  bosom  cold, 
Tears  off  the  snowy  shroud. 

Oh!   but  to  hear  one  glad 
Whirr  of  the  swallow's  wing! 
Oh!  for  one  fragrant  kiss 
From  the  sweet  mouth  of  Spring! 

Cold  blows  the  bitter  wind, 
Freezing  the  blue  lakes  o'er, 
Snow-wreaths  bend  down  the  trees, 
Snowbirds  are  at  the  door. 

35 


WATER-LILIES 

FLOATING  upon  a  northern  lake 
Dark  with  reflected  shade, 
Which  only  plashes  on  the  shore 
\Vhere  lonely  herons  wade, 
In  spot  so  hidden  and  remote, 
That  hardly  in  a  dream 
It  e'er  has  gladdened  human  eye, 
The  water-lilies  gleam. 

White  flecks  upon  the  dark  expanse 

Like  stars  upon  the  sky, 

Or  distant  wave-caps  on  the  sea, 

They  far  and  fragrant  lie; 

The  passing  wild  swans  bend  their  necks, 

As  swiftly  on  they  fly, 

To  greet  these  beauties  of  the  lake 

With  wild  and  mournful  cry. 

Like  water  in  a  thirsty  land, 

Their  breath  so  faint  and  sweet 

Came  to  me  'mid  the  sullen  roar 

And  tumult  of  the  street; 

But  closed  their  leaves,  and  drooped  their  heads, 

Like  captives  in  the  mart; 

Let  others  take  you  home,  I  cried, 

For  I  have  not  the  heart. 

36 


No  flowers  are  these  for  household  use; 

To  show  their  native  grace, 

For  border  they  must  have  the  woods, 

A  lakelet  for  a  vase. 

Let  pansies  in  the  garden  bloom 

And  roses  by  the  door, 

Pond-lilies  like  the  birds  are  wild, 

Once  plucked  are  fair  no  more. 


LEAF -BUDS 

SUCH  tiny  little  things,  so  brown 

One  scarcely  sees  them  in  cold  weather, 
Hugging  so  close  the  parent  stem, 

Or  nestling  sociably  together; 
You  would  not  think  a  spray  of  leaves, 

A  branch  was  there,  all  blossom-laden, 
Quite  long  enough,  ere  spring  has  fled, 

To  weave  a  garland  for  a  maiden. 

Even  before  the  winter  draws 

His  bolts  and  bars  of  ice  asunder, 
The  buds  begin  to  grow  and  swell, 

And  feel  the  spring  e'en  in  their  slumber; 
But  when  the  south  wind,  truant-like, 

Comes  coyly  making  its  advances, 
The  swaddling-bands  grow  all  too  strait, 

And  leaves  break  *out  in  airy  dances. 

37 


Where  did  they  hide  those  folds  on  folds 
Of  green  and  red,  crimped  so  demurely 

Beneath  the  little  waterproofs, 

From  every  storm  tucked  in  securely! 

And  not  alone  the  present  growth, 
But  all  the  beauty  of  the  season, 

The  buds,  the  blossoms  and  the  fruit, 
The  wise  men  say,  not  without  reason, 

Here  hide  away  in  fairy-wise, 
«In  this  brown  shell,  their  wondrous  beauty, 

Until  the  coming  of  the  spring 

Makes  growth  and  loveliness  a  duty. 

O  ye  who  feel  this  life  not  all, 

Who  reach  toward  the  distant  dawning, 
And,  not  content  with  twilight  gleams, 

Hope  still  that  somewhere  there  is  morning; 
Ye  are  the  buds  upon  the  vine  — 

Hidden  within  the  bloom,  the  cluster, 
Which  needs  another,  milder  time, 

To  give  the  grape  its  ripened  lustre. 

Ye  do  not  know — how  can  ye  tell 

From  stirrings  of  imprisoned  sweetness, 

When  ye  are  given  space  to  climb, 

What  is  the  measure  of  completeness? 


TWILIGHT 

HARK  ! 

How  in  the  dark 
Each  sound  grows  distincter, 
Each  murmur  a  sound, 
The  hoofs  of  the  cattle 
Ring  on  the  hard  ground, 
The  sharp  cropping  of  grass, 
A  bite  here  and  there, 
And  the  tinkling  of  bells 
Come  on  the  cool  air. 

See! 

Over  the  lea, 
The  fireflies  are  glancing 
Like  jewels  with  wings, 
And  the  ghost-moth  in  flitting 
A  silvery  gleam  flings; 
While  the  stars  overhead 
Wink  out  one  by  one, 
And  a  glow  belts  the  west 
Where  daylight  has  gone. 

Now, 

Under  the  bough, 
All  dripping  with  perfume 
As  eaves  drip  with  rain, 

39 


All  scents,  faint  at  noonday, 
Grow  sweeter  again, 
They  crowd  and  they  gather, 
'Till  the  motionless  air 
Is  heavy  with  odors, 
Exhaled  everywhere. 

Come, 

Come  let  us  roam 
Abroad  through  the  valley, 
Like  Eden  this  hour, 
With  beauty  and  sweetness 
And  rest  for  its  dower; 
Come  dream  in  the  twilight, 
Aye,  dream  while  we  may; 
To-morrow  is  hasting, 
And  toil  dawns  with  day. 


THE  OLD  PINE-TREE  BY  THE  GATE 

GREEN,  when  all  other  leaves  are  brown 
And  whirled  from  their  high  places  down, 
Bright  Summer's  shade,  but  Winter's  crown, 
We  hail  thee,  old  pine-tree. 

When  through  the  fields  the  storm-wind  raves, 
And  Winter  stumbles  o'er  the  graves 
Of  flowers,  'neath  forest  architraves, 
He  leaves  no  mark  on  thee. 

40 


Thy  many  boughs,  bowed  'neath  the  snow, 
Spring  back  and  let  it  fall  below, 
The  still  air  rings  as  from  a  blow, 
And  all  the  woodlands  hear. 

The  bitterest  frost,  which  knows  no  ruth, 
May  try  on  thee  his  sharpest  tooth, 
He  finds  a  fruitless  task  forsooth, 
He  turns  not  one  leaf  sear. 

When  April  opes  each  ice-locked  spring, 
Teaching  the  silent  year  to  sing, 
She  finds  in  thee  a  minor  string, 
Her  fingers  love  to  try. 

For  heard  'neath  all  the  warbling  strains, 
Her  whispering  winds,  her  merry  rains, 
A  tender  undertone  remains 
Of  plaintive  mystery. 

As  one,  who,  when  all  others  sleep, 

Has  heard  a  secret,  grand  and  deep, 

He  longs  to  tell,  yet  cannot  speak, 

Thou  seemest,  ancient  tree. 

Say!  would  thy  dryad  bent  and  old 
Some  long-lived  sorrow  fain  unfold, 
Which  must  forever  rest  untold, 
A  groan  to  all  but  thee? 


Ah!  many,  like  to  thee,  old  pine, 
Stand  stoutly  on  through  shade  and  shine, 
Whose  heart-song  is  as  sad  as  thine, 
A  wordless  agony; 

Whose  broken  idols,  hid  away, 
May  never  see  the  light  of  day, 
Yet  murmur  through  their  words  alway 
A  plaintive  melody. 


THE   TIDE 

A  MURMUROUS  sigh  along  the  shore, 

Where  gleams  the  sinuous  sand, 
A  distant  whisper  at  the  bar, 
Tells  all  the  listening  land 
That  now,  at  last, 
The  ebb  is  past 
And  the  tide  is  coming  in. 

How  slowly  creeps  th'  advancing  wave, 

You  scarce  can  see  it  rise, 

As  to  each  crevice  of  the  rock 

It  slips  in  humble  guise; 

Yet  'tis  the  sign 

Of  power  divine, 

For  the  tide  is  coming  in. 

42 


Anon  it  lifts  the  stranded  weeds 
And  floats  them  on  its  breast, 
It  leaps  the  barriers,  one  by  one, 
And  shakes  its  flashing  crest; 
For  naught  can  stay 
Its  conquering  way, 
As  the  tide  comes  sweeping  in. 

E'en  when  adown  the  shingly  strand 

The  waters  loud  retreat, 
'Tis  only  that  their  next  advance 
May  lave  the  meadow's  feet; 
Defeat,  you  see, 
Is  victory, 
When  the  rising  tide  comes  in. 

Fear  not  its  dashing  and  its  roar, 

But  trust  it  and  prevail, 
'Twill  lift  thy  shallop  o'er  the  bar, 
'Twill  speed  thy  homeward  sail; 
Look,  far  and  wide, 
On  every  side 
God's  tide  comes  rushing  in. 

WITH  THE  TIDE 

Her  father  was  born  and  died  by  the  ocean. 

WITH  the  rising  tide,  he  was  born, 
On  the  edge  of  a  summer  morn; 
Creeping  and  whispering  to  the  shore, 

43 


It  promised  much  and  hinted  more 
Of  the  life  that  was  to  be, 
Its  joy  and  its  misery. 

First  they  heard  it,  when  far  away 
It  broke  on  the  rocks  in  the  bay 
With  a  sullen  mutter  and  roar  — 
But  silent  it  stole  to  the  shore 
To  stretch  itself  out  on  the  sands; 
In  and  out  through  the  marshy  lands 
It  glided  and  shone  like  a  snake. 
Ah!  that  was  a  time  to  awake. 

And  so  when  the  tide  was  high 
He  greeted  it  with  a  cry. 


At  the  turn  of  the  night  he  died, 

Drawn  away  with  the  falling  tide; 

Wave  by  wave,  breath  by  breath  they  fell, 

The  sea  and  its  lover  as  well, 
Sob  by  sob,  sigh  by  sigh, 
Pulse  by  pulse,  they  both  die. 

Past  the  fainting  moon  overhead 
Torn  and  ghostly  the  cloud  rack  fled, 
But  her  light  through  the  trembling  air 
Showed  the  beaches  beaten  and  bare, 
While  farther  into  the  night 
The  black  water  slipped  from  sight. 

44 


Still  he  lay  with  his  eyelids  closed, 
His  breathing  hushed,  his  limbs  composed, 
And  with  ears  that  but  dully  heard 
He  awaited  the  Master's  word. 
His  life  still  slipping  away 
Like  the  waters  in  the  bay. 

A  boat  on  the  outgoing  sea, 
Where  the  estuary  of  life 
Glides  out  into  eternity, 
Without  a  ripple,  without  strife; 
So  his  life  went  out  with  the  tide, 
In  the  summer  night  he  died. 


CHRISTMAS,   1915 

WHEN  shines  the  Christmas  star 

The  children  all  come  home; 

Though  far  from  me  they  dwell, 

Though  distant  they  may  roam, 

I  hear,  before  the  day  is  light, 

Their  whispered  joy,  their  hushed  delight. 

When  Christmas  comes  again 
They  climb  upon  my  bed, 
Their  lips  caress  my  cheek, 
Their  arms  around  my  head, 
Their  rifled  stockings  flung  away 
Already  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

45 


All  through  the  Christmas  hours 
In  the  still  house  I  hear, 
While  gay  disorder  reigns, 
Glad  sounds  of  life  and  cheer, 
Voices  of  children  and  of  toys, 
Commingled  in  a  joyful  noise. 

When  Christmas  evening  falls, 

The  merry  crew  I  see 

Salute  with  shining  eyes 

The  magic-fruited  tree, 

And  gather  in,  with  laugh  and  cheer, 

The  last,  best  harvest  of  the  year. 

Gay  Christmas  comes  again, 
The  children,  where  are  they? 
Fair  women,  stalwart  men 
Stand  in  their  place  to-day. 
Yet  when  I  look  deep  in  their  eyes 
I  see  the  childish  soul  arise. 

Though  far  away  they  dwell, 
Though  distant  they  may  roam, 
On  Christmas  day  they  come, 
The  children  all  come  home; 
Their  inmost  heart  is  glad  to  be 
At  home,  with  father  and  with  me. 


46 


ON  CHRISTMAS   DAY— 1915 

Her  last  Christmas.     Her  children  asked  her  to  write 
them  a  song  for  the  day. 

ON  Christmas  day,  on  Christmas  day, 
What  says  my  heart  on  Christmas  day? 
Dear  children,  erst  my  babies  small, 
My  heart  sends  greetings  to  you  all, 
On  Christmas  day. 

Your  children,  growing  by  your  side, 
Teach  you  our  love,  our  faith,  our  pride, 
As  you  to  them,  so  we  to  you 
Are  linked  by  chains  tender  and  true, 
On  Christmas  day. 

A  thousand  hopes,  a  thousand  fears, 
Joys,  sorrows,  laughter,  sunshine,  tears; 
All  these  and  many  thousand  more 
Come  thronging  out,  through  memory's  door, 
On  Christmas  day. 

The  fire  you  lit  when  first  you  came, 
Burns  ever  with  more  brilliant  flame, 
And  so  we  greet  you,  while  we  may, 
Once  more,  once  more, 
On  Christmas  day. 

47 


WHAT   THEY  SAY 

THEY  say  that  I  am  old! 
Aye;  so  are  the  fountains, 
That  for  unnumbered  years 
Sing  clear  in  the  mountains. 
Temples  may  fall  away, 
The  rocks  themselves  decay, 
Yet  they  sing  on  and  on, 
Voices  of  Helicon. 

They  say  that  I  am  old: 
My  soul  won't  receive  it,  — 
With  endless  life  begun, 
How  can  she  believe  it? 
Past  the  remotest  star 
She  sees  her  road  stretch  far: 
Can  what  must  live  for  aye, 
Turn  aged  in  a  day? 

They  tell  me  I  must  die! 
What  then  is  this  dying? 
A  sword  that  cuts  the  cord, 
And  sets  the  bird  flying. 
Heaven's  windows  open  stand, 
Whence  a  dear  pierced  hand, 
Out-reaching,  draws  her  in 
A  new  song  to  begin. 

48 


THOUGHT    QUESTIONINGS 

WHERE  hast  thou  been,  my  soul,  oh,  tell  me  where? 
Thou  wast  not  formed  with  this  thy  frail  abode,  — 
This  clay  is  but  a  drag,  a  painful  load 
For  one  the  native  of  some  different  air. 

In  sleep  I  hear  sweet  music,  here  unknown, 
And  all  within  me  rises  at  the  sound, 
Which  seems  to  wrap  me,  as  a  veil,  around, 
Something  of  such  a  plaintive,  soothing  tone, 
That  even  now  I  sigh,  as  'twere  the  song 
With  which  my  mother  lull'd  me  erst  to  sleep, — 
And  in  my  spirit,  long-suppressed  and  deep, 
The  echo  answers  with  vibrations  strong. 

When  sunset  fills  the  woods  with  softened  light, 
And  the  zephyrs  all  vocal  make  the  trees, 
One  feels  a  mystery  in  all  he  sees; 
Perchance  it  is  the  coming  of  the  night, 
That  fills  his  heart  with  such  an  awful  joy, 
He  fears  to  speak  it,  lest  he  break  the  charm, 
And  yet  'tis  more  than  the  prevailing  calm, 
That  gives  to  every  sense  such  glad  employ. 

There  is  a  something  in  the  breathing  wind, 

And  in  the  very  shading  of  the  sky, 

That  lifts  the  wings  by  which  our  spirits  fly, 

49 


And  chafes  them  'gainst  the  fetters  that  them  bind; 
Say  not  'tis  fancy,  it  is  something  more, 
'Tis  as  the  veil  that  hides  some  dreamed  of  face, 
The  mist  that  shadows  o'er  some  lovely  place, 
Which  straight  we  know,  though  never  seen  before. 

Oh!  am  I  earth-born,  as  the  grass,  the  flowers, 
That  future  days  will  see  upon  my  grave? 
Nay,  they  who  say  so,  but  as  maniacs  rave; 
I  feel  my  soul  has  seen  those  heavenly  bowers, 
Whither  my  feet,  my  thoughts  so  eager  fly; 
Like  a  lost  child,  I  wear  a  costly  dress,  — 
Though  soiled  by  wandering  in  the  wilderness, 
It  speaks  my  birthplace  and  my  lineage  high. 


THE   BROOK 

LISTEN  in  the  quiet  meadow 
How  the  brooklet  flows, 
Rippling  on  in  light  and  shadow, 
Laughing  as  it  goes. 

Wearing  smooth  with  ceaseless  kisses 
Each  misshapen  stone, 
Adding  to  its  store  of  blisses 
Yet  another  tone. 

Finding  music  in  the  grasses, 
Though  they  choke  the  way, 

50 


Laughing  still,  it  greets  and  passes 
Woods  that  hide  the  day. 

Thus  each  pebble  that  would  bar  it 
Makes  its  song  more  clear, 
Every  tangle  that  would  mar  it 
Adds  but  to  its  cheer. 

Happy  brooklet  of  the  meadow, 
Let  me  learn  of  thee, 
Teach  thy  song  of  shine  and  shadow 
Even  unto  me. 


MORNING  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

MORNING  is  rising  on  the  city's  towers, 
And  the  first  sunbeam,  slanting  upward,  lies 
Upon  the  housetops.     Now  begins  to  rise 
The  smoke,  dark  herald  of  the  busy  hours. 
See!  how  it  changes  'neath  the  hand  of  morn, 
From  deepest  gray  to  amethystine  hues; 
And,  as  advance  the  streakings  of  the  dawn, 
Unites  the  opal's  fire  with  those  soft  blues 
Which  Autumn  shows  us  in  the  hazy  sky. 
Then  as  the  sun  uplifts  him  from  the  plain, 
The  curling  wreaths  before  his  coming  fly, 
And  leave  the  heavens  without  one  dusky  stain. 
The  city  lies  all  open  to  the  day, 
And  sleep  on  heavy  pinions  floats  away. 

51 


HOME  AT  NIGHT 

I  STOOD  amid  the  crowded  ways 

Where  toil  and  traffic  meet, 
And  thought  I  heard  time's  pendule  swing; 

'Twas  but  the  rush  of  feet. 

I  thought  I  heard  the  cry  of  earth, 

The  groaning  of  her  pain; 
It  was  the  city's  roar  and  din 

That  sank  and  rose  again. 

Oh  weary  life,  oh  dreary  way, 

Oh  unavailing  fight! 
Who  could  outlive  the  anxious  day, 

Came  he  not  home  at  night? 

Home,  home  at  night!    The  golden  heads, 

The  auburn  and  the  brown, 
Are  shining  'gainst  the  window-panes, 

In  country  and  in  town; 

The  door  is  opened  with  a  shout, 

And,  from  the  outside  cold, 
The  weary  man  by  tender  hands 

Is  drawn  into  the  fold. 

52 


Sweet  foretaste  of  the  Father's  house, 
Through  whose  star-windows  bright 

We  see  so  ma~ny  eager  eyes 
Watch  for  us  ev'ry  night; 

So  many  tender  hands  draw  back 

The  doorway  curtain  blue, 
As  weary  feet  the  threshold  press 

And  joyfully  pass  through. 

And  where  the  Heavenly  Father's  voice, 

That  dearest  voice  and  best, 
Says,  Come,  poor  child,  poor  footsore  child, 

Welcome  to  home  and  rest. 


THE    SPRINGTIME    COMES    AGAIN 

THE  springtime  comes  again,  dear  Love, 

The  days  we  hold  so  dear; 

The  flickering  shadows  on  the  grass, 

The  flower-breath  far  and  near, 

The  callow  birdlings  stretch  their  throats 

For  berries  bright  with  dew; 

The  charm  lacks  only  you,  dear  Love, 

The  charm  lacks  only  you. 

I  sit  among  the  ripening  grass, 
The  fruit-blooms  fall  around, 
Whene'er  the  south  wind  stirs  the  trees, 
Circling  unto  the  ground. 

53 


I  idly  watch  the  idle  clouds 

Melt  back  into  the  blue; 

I  needs  must  think  of  you,  dear  Love, 

I  needs  must  think  of  you. 

The  days  have  slowly  grown  to  years, 

And  yet  they  seem  not  long, 

Since  our  two  lives  ran  into  one 

Like  melody  and  song; 

They  have  not  all  been  halcyon  days, 

Yet  send  He  rose  or  rue, 

I  thank  my  God  for  you,  dear  Love, 

I  thank  my  God  for  you. 

The  days  are  not  all  halcyon  days, 

And  yet  the  white  dove,  peace, 

Has  made  our  home  her  nest  the  while, 

And  still  her  joys  increase. 

It  is  not  every  heart  hath  rest, 

Whate'er  the  world  may  do; 

But  mine  has  rest  in  you,  dear  Love, 

Has  perfect  rest  in  you. 

For  had  I  closed  my  eyes  in  death, 

And  turned  me  to  depart, 

One  kiss  of  thine,  e'en  were  I  cold, 

Would  warm  me  to  the  heart; 

And  if  from  all  this  hollow  world, 

I  take  but  one  thing  true, 

'Twill  be  the  thought  of  you,  dear  Love, 

'Twill  be  the  thought  of  you. 

54 


A   BABY   SONG 

Two  eyes  so  deep,  so  dark,  so  clear, 
Like  still  lakes  in  a  silent  land, 
Into  their  tranquil  depths  I  peer 
And  long  their  dreams  to  understand. 

Two  lips  like  sunrise  on  the  snow, 
When  all  the  hills  transfigured  glow, 
But  shall  I  never,  never  learn 
Their  songs  that  like  the  streamlets  flow? 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  world, 
Thy  new-born  soul  on  tiptoe  waits, 
And  dreams  and  sings  till  speech,  one  day, 
Shall  open  throw  her  pearly  gates. 

And  the  first  words,  like  trembling  doves, 
Cling  to  thy  lips,  afraid  and  shy, 
Slowly  unfold  their  silver  wings, 
And,  one  by  one,  learn  how  to  fly. 


EVERLASTING    DAYS 

As  the  moon  that  in  the  heavens 

Shineth  alway, 
Though  she  be  by  earth's  black  shadow 

Hid  for  a  day, 

55 


Is  the  life  that  faileth  never, 
Never  for  aye. 

As  the  river  ever  singing 

Unto  the  sun, 
Though  beneath  a  cloud  in  darkness 

Now  it  may  run, 
Is  the  life  that  faileth  never, 

Never  is  done. 

Death  the  shadow  of  the  gateway 

Upon  the  sod, 
As  we  pass  through  from  the  meadows 

Our  feet  have  trod, 
Entering  the  Golden  City 

To  dwell  with  God. 


FLOWERS  LAID  ON  THE  BREAST  OF  HER 
BROTHER  FREDDIE'S  BODY 

DEAR  friend,  thanks  for  the  tender  thought 
That  laid  upon  our  darling's  breast 
The  sweet  blossoms,  which,  'mid  all  his  joys, 
He  ever  loved  the  best. 

Oft  as  the  spring  called  violets  forth 
He  found  the  firstlings  of  the  wood, 

56 


And  knew,  in  autumn's  soberer  days, 
Where  the  last  aster  stood. 

Amid  the  treasures  of  our  home 
His  flowerets  claim  our  tenderest  care, — 
Alas!  that  he  should  fade  so  soon 
And  they  remain  so  fair. 

Dear  friend,  thou  knowest  well  the  pain 
That  fills  our  hearts,  as  day  by  day 
We  watch  the  uncurling  leaves  he  loved. 
And  he  so  far  away. 

But  well  we  know  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
Blooms  for  him  on  the  heavenly  plain, 
And  joying  in  his  happiness 

Our  hearts  cannot  complain. 

Then  take  the  thanks  of  those  whose  grief 
Thy  tender  love  has  borne  in  part, 
And  may  the  flowers  thus  sent  e'er  shed 
Sweet  fragrance  in  thy  heart. 


DEATH   PASSED   MY  WAY 

ONE  time,  Death  passed  my  way; 
His  robe,  confused  and  gray, 
Enwrapped,  a  night  cloud  dun, 
My  vision  of  the  sun. 

57 


But,  as  a  father  might 
Hush  a  scared  child's  affright, 
He  whispered,  "  Look  and  see 
The  face  that  smiles  on  thee." 

I  looked  and  straight  forgot 
My  thoughts,  and  heeded  not 
The  haunting  line  that  ran, 

II  The  shadow  feared  of  man." 

The  eyes  of  love  divine 
Shone  calmly  into  mine, 
And,  as  in  Israel's  night, 
Shot  all  the  cloud  with  light. 

Lord,  since  Thou  didst  not  give 
To  see  Thy  face  and  live, 
I  know  the  secret  why 
We  see  Thv  face  and  die. 


UNDER   THE   CYPRESS   VINE 

Under   a    spreading   walnut-tree,    over    the   graves    of 
a  mother  and  her  three  infant  boys,  crept  a  cypress  vine. 

AH!  bind  them  gently,  tender  vine, 

The  one  unto  the  other, 
The  graves,  o'er  which  thy  tendrils  twine, 

Most  precious  treasure  cover; 

58 


Enwreathe  them  in  thy  soft  embrace, 

Those  whom  we  never  sever ' 
In  fondest  thought  their  names  shall  be 

One  memory  forever. 

The  mother  and  her  bright-haired  boys, 

Now  never  to  be  parted, 
Have  met  upon  that  shining  shore, 

Where  meet  the  holy-hearted; 
The  sunshine,  through  the  walnut-leaves, 

Falls  where  they  lie  together, 
And  there  the  rain  calls  out  the  flowers, 

In  tearful  April  weather. 

The  vine  has  bound  them  all  in  one; 

Its  blossoms,  ever  seeming  — 
Hiding  with  crimson  bloom  the  graves  — 

To  have  a  sacred  meaning; 
A  symbol  of  the  precious  blood 

That  saved  both  child  and  mother, 
Which  he,  who  marks  the  Christless  dead, 

Has  seen  and  passed  them  over. 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

AH!  the  dreary  house  and  old, 
There  across  the  way; 

In  full  sunshine  it  stands  cold, 
Like  ghosts  seen  by  day. 

59 


Its  uncurtained  windows  stare 
As  with  dumb  surprise; 

Or  the  vacant  blindness  share 
Of  an  idol's  eyes. 

Since  the  children's  feet  are  gone 
From  the  echoing  floor, 

The  house  takes  a  weirdness  on, 
Never  seen  before. 

Vine  and  rose  still  cling  about, 

Tap  against  the  pane; 
Winds  at  every  doorway  shout, 

And  entreats  the  rain; 

Yet  it  has  no  answering  voice, 

All  its  music  fled, 
It  can  sorrow  nor  rejoice, 

For  the  house  is  dead. 


Ah,  the  dreary  world  and  old, 

Sun  and  star  and  clod! 
Full  of  beauty,  yet  so  cold 

If  there  be  no  God. 

If  the  beckoning  heavens  cry  not, 
"  Here  thy  Father  dwells," 

If  there  be  no  tender  thought 
In  the  ferny  dells, 

60 


If  the  roses  on  the  hills, 
Vacant  stare  and  shine, 

If  the  network  of  the  rills, 
Traced  no  hand  divine, 

If  there  be  indeed  no  God, 
As  vain  man  has  said, 

What  care  we  for  star  or  sod, 
For  the  world  is  dead. 


THE   SKYLARK'S    NEST 

THE  meadows  are  twinkling  with  dew. 
The  daisies  are  opening  their  eyes, 
Gold  fringes  the  curtain  of  blue, 
Which  evening  drew  over  the  skies. 

The  sun  has  but  purpled  the  hill, 
And  touched  the  tall  tree- tops  with  light; 
The  lanes  yet  are  shady  and  still, 
And  sweet  with  the  perfumes  of  night. 

Alone  in  the  midst  of  the  grass, 
A  nest  stands  all  vacant  and  bare, 
The  breezes,  which  whisper  and  pass, 
Find  no  ans'ring  whisperers  there. 

A  nest  without  music  and  love, 
Deserted  upon  the  cold  ground! 

61 


But  hark!   from  blue  heaven  above, 
There  falls  a  sweet  shower  of  sound. 

Wouldst  know  whence  this  rapture  of  song, 
That  pierces  the  mist-laden  air? 
Dawn  comes,  though  the  night  may  be  long, 
When  the  larks  sing,  the  nest  must  be  bare. 

Then  weep  not,  fond  mother,  so  sore 
O'er  nests  whence  the  songsters  have  fled; 
The  earth  may  be  still  evermore, 
But  hark!   there  is  music  o'erhead. 


STAR  AND   LILY 

STAR  of  the  cold  and  wintry  sky, 
Across  immeasurable  spaces 
Flinging  a  sheaf  of  arrowy  beams, 
E'en  heaven  itself  thy  beauty  graces. 

Thy  message  of  the  power  of  God, 
Who  traced  thine  orbit  with  His  finger, 
Might  freeze  the  current  of  my  blood, 
Cause  hope  to  halt  and  faith  to  linger 

Did  not  the  lily,  faint  and  frail, 
Here  in  my  window  garden  growing, 
Remind  me,  by  its  fragrant  breath, 
Of  words  with  mercy  overflowing. 

62 


For  God  made  both;  His  mighty  hand, 
The  vast  and  seething  ball  upholding, 
Is,  with  a  light  and  tender  touch, 
The  lily's  crystal  bells  unfolding. 

They  are  but  dust,  the  fiery  star, 
The  lovely,  fragrant,  fleeting  flower. 
Though  one  may  shine  unnumbered  years, 
And  one  may  fade  within  an  hour; 

They  are  but  dust.    Within  me  burns 
A  light  akin  to  light  supernal  — 
Where  could  I  trust  my  deathless  soul 
Save  in  the  care  of  Love  Eternal? 

GRASS 

I  LOVE  the  grass,  the  roadside  grass. 

Through  sultry  summer  days 

It  calleth  unto  all  who  pass 

To  leave  the  beaten  ways, 

And  find  it,  after  dust  and  heat, 

A  pathway  soft  to  weary  feet. 

At  first  it  merely  skirts  the  road 

Along  a  field  of  grain, 

Then,  where  the  shelving  banks  begin, 

It  groweth  thick  again: 

And,  where  the  pine-woods  scent  the  air, 

It  springs  up  sparsely  here  and  there. 

63 


And  as  it  rests  my  weary  foot, 
I  love  to  think  how  oft 
Our  Saviour's  dusty  sandal  pressed 
Its  carpet  green  and  soft; 
When,  at  the  close  of  busy  day, 
He  turned  His  steps  to  Bethany. 

It  must  have  loved  to  make  His  path 

With  thousand  odors  sweet, 

And  stretching  up  with  eager  haSte 

Caressed  His  blessed  feet; 

Or  resting  ever  humbly  bent, 

To  mark  the  way  His  footsteps  went. 

Oh!  there  is  hardly  one  small  joy 

In  all  the  country  side, 

Which  by  His  word,  or  look,  or  touch, 

Christ  has  not  sanctified; 

The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  flowers,  the  birds, 

Speak  of  Him,  loud  as  uttered  words. 

It  takes  away  all  fear  that  He 

Will  e'er  forget  His  own, 

When  of  the  very  grass  He  spoke 

In  such  a  tender  tone, 

And,  though  Heaven's  King,  remembers  yet 

The  evening  walks  on  Olivet. 


64 


GOD'S    PEACE 

Suggested  by  Christians  in  the  war  zones  and  in  the 
mountains  of  Armenia. 

THERE  is  a  peace,  far  mightier  than  war, 

That  battle,  horror,  murder  cannot  quench, 

That  smiles  serene  close  to  death's  open  door, 

That  sings  its  song  e'en  in  the  blood-stained  trench. 

O  peace  of  God,  life  of  the  trusting  heart, 

All  is  not  lost  where  thou  a  dweller  art. 

Jesus,  behold,  Thy  suffering  children  lie 

In  the  red  fires  of  torture,  grief  and  shame, 

Yet,  by  Thy  grace,  they  bravely  live  and  die, 

Since  Thou  dost  walk  with  them  amidst  the  flame. 

From  Thee  their  strength,  from  Thee  their  courage 

springs, 
Great  Prince  of  Peace,  Thou  art  the  King  of  kings. 


THE    EMPTY    NEST 

THE  winter  wind  blows  through  the  night, 

Where  wild  woods  toss,  where  wild  woods  toss. 

Complaining  ever  in  its  flight, 

Of  grief  and  loss,  of  grief  and  loss. 

65 


The  empty  nest  in  orchard  croft 

Sways  with  the  bough,  sways  with  the  bough; 
Once  full  of  song  it  swung  aloft,  — 

How  empty  now,  how  empty  now! 

The  snow  comes  drifting  on  the  wind 

Across  the  lea,  across  the  lea, 
As  one  who,  leaving  hope  behind, 

Can  only  flee,  can  only  flee. 

It  heaps  into  the  empty  nest 

All  it  can  hold,  all  it  can  hold; 
No  more  by  love  and  music  blessed, 

But  still  and  cold,  but  still  and  cold. 

Why  should  it  seek  a  place  of  rest 

So  sad  and  lone,  so  sad  and  lone? 
Why  linger  in  an  empty  nest, 

\Vhose  birds  have  flown,  whose  birds  have  flown? 

O  mother,  fainting  and  distressed, 

Beside  thy  dead,  beside  thy  dead, 
Look  upward  from  the  empty  nest; 

Thy  bird  has  fled,  thy  bird  has  fled! 


66 


THE   OPEN    GRAVE 

The  occasion  of  this  song  is  not  known,  but  it  was 
read  as  very  appropriate  at  the  author's  burial. 

THE  cypress  boughs  sway  to  and  fro, 
The  open  grave  is  strait  and  low, 
Weeping  above  and  peace  below. 

Oh,  weary  feet  that  climbed  to  bliss, 
Your  many  paths  but  led  to  this, 
One  step  from  summit  to  abyss. 

Oh,  busy  brain,  that,  never  still, 
Dreamed  ever,  but  ne'er  dreamed  of  ill, 
Thou  now  art  quiet  'gainst  thy  will. 

But  eager  .soul  that  now  dost  fling 
This  dust  from  thine  unfolding  wing, 
It  is  not  thee,  they  hither  bring. 

And  thou  too,  body,  e'en  to  thee, 
This  is  the  gate  that  sets  thee  free, 
From  pain  and  from  mortality. 

Enter  and  close  behind  the  door, 

Which  grass  and  flowers  shall  bolt  and  bar, 

As  if  'twere  shut  forevermore. 

67 


Yet,  from  that  bed  so  dark  and  low, 
Immortal  shall  from  mortal  grow, 
As  winter-bulbs  in  springtime  blow. 

And  what  was  closed  in  grief  and  pain, 
With  joy  shall  open  fly  again, 
At  the  last  trumpet's  loud  acclaim. 


A   TWILIGHT    SONG 

Now  the  deep'ning  tides  of  night 
Meet  the  yellow  sands  of  day, 

And,  as  pales  the  sunset  light, 
Fades  the  busy  world  away, 
At  the  twilight  hour. 

Hesper  shines  with  bright'ning  face; 

Lord,  my  spirit  turns  to  Thee, 
Earth  becomes  a  holy  place, 

Where  my  Brother  talks  with  me, 
At  the  twilight  hour. 

After  Thee,  the  words  I  say, 

"  Father,  let  Thy  kingdom  come." 

Teach  me  how  to  truly  pray, 
Let  my  spirit  not  be  dumb, 
At  the  twilight  hour. 

68 


To  the  sowers  of  the  seed, 
To  the  reapers,  worn,  yet  glad, 

All  the  gifts  and  grace  they  need, 
Richly  from  Thy  treasures  add, 
At  the  twilight  hour. 

Not  alone  to  bear  Thy  name, 
But  to  follow  with  the  cross, 

Let  this,  Jesus,  be  my  aim. 

Let  me  count  the  world  but  dross, 
At  the  twilight  hour. 

Then,  when  morning  bids  me  wake, 
Glad  to  labor  and  achieve, 

I  will  bid  the  world  partake 

Of  the  blessings  I  receive 

At  the  twilight  hour. 


VOICES 

BACK  to  our  northern  land,  o'er  hill  and  fen, 
The  springtide  maiden  hastens  once  again. 
Her  warm  breath  wakes,  her  fingers  deft  employ, 
Each  after  each,  the  instruments  of  joy. 
Each  string  she  tries,  each  tuneful  pipe  essays, 
And  every  song  is  still  a  song  of  praise. 
Our  souls  respond.    We  answer,  voice  for  voice; 
Take  up  the  strain  and  in  God's  love  rejoice. 

69 


Yet  listen,  and,  past  nature's  harp,  we  hear 
Ten  thousand  voices,  speaking  fine  and  clear, 
Ten  thousand  voices,  sounding  far  and  near, 
Until  the  soul  seems  but  one  quivering  ear. 

Like  her  who,  on  the  plains  of  sunny  France, 
Saw  forms  of  saint  and  angel  in  her  trance 
And  heard  their  voices,  ever  urging  on 
Her  soul  to  duty  till  her  task  was  done; 
Calling  at  morn,  at  noon,  at  quiet  eve, 
The  peasant  maid  her  lowly  tasks  to  leave, 
To  change  the  distaff  for  the  banner  white 
And  save  her  country  from  the  invader's  might; 
Like  her,  we  well  may  pause  and  listening  stand, 
While  words  of  warning,  pleading  and  command 
Echo  across  the  ages,  till  they  wake 
Our  souls  to  action  for  the  Saviour's  sake. 

The  past  is  full  of  voices.    The  faint  din 

Of  clashing  arms  and  hurtling  javelin 

Mingles  with  shouts  of  victory  and  the  cry 

Of  those  who  flee,  the  moans  of  those  who  die. 

While  words  of  hope,  of  courage  and  of  cheer 

Fall  with  distinctness  on  the  listening  ear, 

Like  the  clear,  joyous  carol  of  a  bird 

Above  the  city's  sullen  turmoil  heard. 

And,  hark!  the  angel's  choral  leads  a  song, 

That  deepens  ever  as  it  flows  along, 

Praising  the  Crucified.    From  age  to  age 

Its  heavenly  tone  earth's  loftiest  strains  engage. 


Nation  from  nation,  heart  from  heart  receives 
The  chant  and  its  best  music  interweaves. 
The  northern  fervor  and  the  southern  fire 
To  nobly  set  the  sacred  theme  aspire. 
Music  her  organ,  Poesy  her  lyre 
Calls  to  new  life,  to  lead  the  swelling  choir. 

Down  through  the  centuries,  the  song  of  peace 
Touches  the  notes  of  discord  and  they  cease; 
And,  in  their  stead,  a  busy  friendly  hum, 
The  harmony  of  labor  'gins  to  come, 
And  Miriam's  cymbals  by  the  Red  Sea  wave 
Chime  with  the  falling  shackles  of  the  slave  — 

Like  a  full  throated  organ,  that  displays 

The  beauty  of  the  voice  which  it  obeys, 

Whose  deep,  hushed  harmonies  accent  the  song 

And  follow  all  its  winding  maze  along; 

The  solemn  diapason  of  the  past, 

With  varied  notes,  profound,  ecstatic,  vast, 

Accompanies  one  voice  which  rules  the  whole, 

The  voice  of  Jesus,  speaking  to  the  soul. 

That  blessed  voice  our  inmost  spirits  know, 

And  all  the  past  repeats  its  mandate,  "  go," 

"  Go  into  all  the  world,  go  and  proclaim 

The  glories  of  your  Lord's  all-conquering  name. 

Onward  with  courage!    They  alone  are  brave, 

Who  lose  themselves  another's  life  to  save, 

Whose  love,  like  Orpheus'  fabled  magic  lyre, 

Soothes  savage  hearts  and  wakens  pure  desire  "  - 


This  is  the  clarion  word  of  yesterday, 

That  calls  us  to  the  duty  of  to-day. 

An  eager  crowd  of  beggars  at  the  gate, 

The  voices  of  to-day  our  coming  wait, 

Have  waited  long  for  us.    With  us  was  born 

Room  for  our  life,  a  calling  to  adorn, 

Some  noble  task,  to  accomplish  which  we  came, 

Some  word  to  speak,  some  message  to  proclaim. 

While  all  the  past  conjures  us  not  to  waste 

The  precious  hour,  the  present  bids  us  haste. 

Hasten,  oh!  hasten,  for  life's  winter  day 

Arises  late,  and  fades  at  noon  away. 

Our  cherished  theme  is  dropped,  though  half  undone, 

Our  sweetest  song  is  only  just  begun; 

For  Death,  who  follows  fast  on  silent  wings, 

Snatches  the  harp  and  snaps  the  slender  strings. 

Then  haste,  oh,  haste,  that  to-morrow  may, 

Since  we  have  lived,  be  better  than  to-day. 

What  is  this  sound,  that  fills  my  shrinking  ears? 

As  of  a  river  sobbing,  full  of  tears ; 

A  bitter  river  that  doth  take  its  rise, 

Far  from  the  sparkling  streams  of  Paradise, 

In  broken  hearts,  and  whose  sad  waters  flow 

From  eyes  that  every  change  of  sorrow  know; 

An  ancient  river,  all  its  streams  begin 

At  Eden's  gate,  whence,  weeping  for  her  sin, 

With  streaming  eyes,  came  forth  our  Mother,  Eve, 

First  to  transgress  and  first,  alas!  to  grieve. 

72 


Ever  advancing  with  advancing  time, 
Broadening  and  deepening,  fed  by  every  clime, 
River  of  tears!  even  in  our  glad  to-day, 
We  hear  thy  wailing  waters  with  dismay. 
The  undertone  of  every  song  of  gladness, 
Thy  sullen  moan  fills  all  our  joy  with  sadness. 
Ah!  who  shall  heal  thy  waters,  who  transform, 
To  gladsome  praise,  thy  cry  of  grief  and  storm? 

'Tis  God's  own  voice  in  answer  that  we  hear, 

As  erst  He  spake  in  Israel  to  the  seer. 

"  Follow  these  bitter  streams  e'en  to  the  spring 

And  into  it  the  salt  of  soundness  fling, 

For  I  will  heal  these  waters.    Never  more 

Shall  death  flow  out  of  them  as  heretofore." 

Why  falter  we,  reluctant  to  obey? 

Why  deem  that  word  a  word  of  yesterday? 

The  salt  of  grace,  borne  in  the  gospel  cruse, 

God  places  in  our  feeble  hands  to  use. 

He  bids  us  cast  it  in  those  springs  of  woe, 

Sad  human  hearts,  whence  sin  and  sorrow  flow. 

While  He,  Himself,  our  Saviour  and  our  Lord, 

Shall  heal  the  fountain  with  one  gracious  word. 

The  bitter  river,  altered  at  its  source, 

Sings  on  its  way,  a  sparkling  water-course, 

And,  cleared  of  every  stain  of  death  and  strife, 

Springs  up  a  fountain  of  eternal  life. 

Oh!  the  glad  future,  with  its  heavenly  joy! 
The  ecstatic  music  that  its  choirs  employ! 

73 


Shall  we  defraud  it  of  one  glorious  strain, 

Or  in  its  cadence  leave  one  note  of  pain? 

Nay!  let  us  teach  earth's  voices  as  they  rise, 

To  emulate  celestial  harmonies; 

Till  mystic  India  teach  the  glad  new  song 

To  waking  China,  unresponsive  long; 

Till  to  each  farthest  isle,  each  coast  remote, 

On  every  breeze,  the  echoing  hymn  shall  float; 

Till  every  voice  and  every  heart  shall  sing, 

And  Jesus  Christ  be  hailed  creation's  king; 

Then  shall  glad  earth  forget  her  ancient  moan 

And  lead  the  stars  that  sing  around  God's  throne. 


THE   SOLDIER   BOY 

A    song    at    the    time    of    the    Spanish    War.      Air- 
When   Johnny    Comes    Marching    Home   Again." 

WHEN  Johnny  comes  marching  up  the  street, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 
Then  Jenny's  heart  begins  to  beat, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 

It  beats  so  high  with  pride  and  joy, 
She  needs  must  cheer  her  charming  boy 
As  he  fights  the  fight  for  liberty,  right,  and  home. 

A  thousand  battle-fields  has  war, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 
Peace  has  ten  thousand  conflicts  more, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 

74 


And  Jenny  sees,  with  love  and  pride, 

Her  Johnny  march  at  Duty's  side 

As  he  fights  the  fight  for  liberty,  right,  and  home. 

For  freedom's  sake  the  fathers  came, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 
The  Pilgrim  mothers  did  the  same, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 
And,  as  in  all  the  glorious  past, 
So  long  as  wrong  and  hardship  last 
We  will  fight  the  fight  of  liberty,  right,  and  home. 

Then  Jenny  give  a  ringing  cheer, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 
For  those  who  love  their  country  dear, 

Hurrah,  hurrah! 

What  Johnny  dare,  that  Johnny  can; 
And  victory  crowns  the  honest  man 
As  he  fights  the  fight  for  liberty,  right,  and  home. 


OUR  COUNTRY 

A  national  hymn.     Air  —  "Jerusalem,  the  Golden." 

GOD  bless  thee,  native  country, 

His  smile,  like  sunshine,  rest 
Upon  thy  hills  and  valleys, 

With  peace  and  freedom  blest; 

75 


Take  freedom  for  thy  banner 
And  justice  for  thy  sword, 

Cry  joyfully  hosannah, 
O  favored  of  the  Lord. 

God  bless  thee,  native  country, 

What  danger  can  betide? 
The  hand  that  ever  led  thee 
Will  all  thy  future  guide; 
After  the  ancient  manner 

He'll  show  himself  our  God; 
Arise  and  shout  hosannah, 
O  favored  of  the  Lord. 

God  bless  thee,  native  country, 

May  ages  but  increase 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  glory, 
Thy  heritage  of  peace; 
On  hillside  and  savannah 

The  wealth  of  joy  is  poured, 
Cry  joyfully  hosannah, 
O  favored  of  the  Lord. 

God  bless  thee,  native  country, 

Let  nothing  thee  affright 
Long  as  thy  children  love  thee 
And  stand  by  truth  and  right; 
Then  rest  beneath  thy  banner 

And  lean  upon  thy  sword, 
Cry  joyfully  hosannah, 
O  favored  of  the  Lord. 

76 


THE  FADING  LINE  OF  BLUE 

This  poem  has  been  widely  read  and  greatly 
admired.  The  "darling"  and  "my  dear"  was  her 
oldest  grandson.  Written  and  first  printed  during  the 
G.  A.  R.  Encampment  in  Chicago  in  August,  1900. 

COME,  darling,  stand  with  me  awhile, 

That  through  the  window  we  may  view, 
With  eager  eyes  that  weep  and  smile,  * 

Once  more  the  fading  line  of  blue; 
The  fading  line  of  blue,  my  dear, 

That  once  stretched  wide  and  far, 
As  though  the  sky  were  dropping  near 
And  every  flag  a  star,  my  dear, 

And  every  flag  a  star. 

Ah!  see  how  brave  they  march  along  — 

A  drum,  a  riddled  flag  or  two, 
A  fife  that  shrills  a  battle  song, 

Some  ancient  coats  that  once  were  blue. 
And  some  have  empty  sleeves,  my  dear, 

And  some  limp  faint  and  slow; 
Come,  greet  them  with  a  hearty  cheer, 
Salute  them  as  they  go,  my  dear, 

Salute  them  as  they  go. 

For  I  have  stood  to  see  them  pass 
In  other,  sadder  days  than  these, 

77 


When  blood  was  red  upon  the  grass 
And  bullets  felled  the  forest  trees, 

When  dread  clutched  at  my  heart,  my  dear, 
Lest  freedom's  self  might  die, 

And  to  that  last  supremest  fear 

They  were  God's  best  reply,  my  dear, 
They  were  God's  best  reply. 

For  those  you  see  below  us  there  — 

Ah,  scan  their  passing  faces  well  — 
Have  borne,  each  man,  heroic  share 

In  war's  dread  cyclone;  shot  and  shell 
Have  proved  their  stainless  faith,  my  dear, 

Their  deathless  courage,  too; 
Salute  them,  love  them,  and  revere; 
They  bled  for  me  and  you,  my  dear, 

They  bled  for  me  and  you. 

Though  all  the  world  is  changed  to-day, 

The  sun  shines  bright,  the  flag  floats  free, 
And  all  the  past  is  swept  away 

By  glory  and  prosperity, 
Your  heart  must  not  forget,  my  dear, 

All  that  you  owe  the  heroes  who 
Brought  back  full-handed  peace  and  cheer. 
Salute  the  line  of  blue,  my  dear! 

The  fading  line  of  blue! 


ECHOES    FROM   THE  CIVIL  WAR 

AND 
SOME   OCCASIONAL  POEMS 


BLOOD -ROOT 

ON  the  hillside,  out  in  the  sun, 
Of  all  fair  flowers  the  purest  one, 
White  as  moonbeams,  whiter  than  snow, 
Pure  as  dewdrops  these  beauties  grow. 

Pluck  them  gently,  lo!  on  your  hand 
Crimson  drops  in  a  moment  stand. 
Has  the  pure  blossom  then  a  heart, 
That  from  its  wound  the  blood  should  start? 

Snow-white  flower  of  a  bloody  root, 

Of  our  future  be  prophet  mute, 

And  through  our  land  may  sweet  peace  grow 

From  war  and  blood  a  bloom  of  snow. 


AFTER   THE   BATTLE 

HUSHED  is  the  roll  of  the  drum, 

And  the  musketry's  rattle, 
Cannon  and  rifle  are  dumb; 

Passed  is  the  battle. 

The  vanquished  are  fled,  and  pursuit  were  in  vain, 
For  night's  dusky  veil  wraps  in  mist  all  the  plain, 
After  the  battle. 

81 


The  burning  sun  had  set  in  blood; 
Up  rose  the  bloody  harvest  moon; 
Small  store  of  golden  wheat  she  saw  — 
Alas!  her  light  came  all  too  soon; 
As,  wrapt  in  mist  as  in  a  shroud, 
She  slowly  climbed  athwart  the  skies, 
She  seemed,  like  some  fierce  fiend  of  war, 
To  revel  in  the  sacrifice. 

Alas!  the  yellow  wheat 
Was  threshed  too  soon,  too  soon  by  hostile  feet 

The  feathery,  rustling  corn 

Was  trampled  in  the  mire, 

And  all  the  mire  was  red. 
What  wonder  that  the  sun  went  down  in  fire, 

And  the  moon  rose  in  blood! 

The  hillside  golden-rod, 

And  aster  of  the  wood, 
Were  scattered  here  in  place  of  rosemary; 

Instead  of  organ  tones 

Were  sighings  deep,  and  groans, 
Which  prayed  for  morning  where  the  wounded  lay. 

But  ah!  th'  unholy  sight  — 

Hide,  hide,  red  moon,  thy  light! 

How  canst  thou  look  so  bold,  where  man  dares  only 
guess? 

Are  these  the  shining  eyes 

Which  looked  for  glory's  prize? 
Are  these  the  lips  which  little  children  loved  to  press? 

82 


Cover  them,  cover  them, 

Bury  the  dead, 
Gently  now  gather  them, 

Each  to  his  bed; 
Fighting  for  liberty 

Passed  they  away, 
They  shall  be  heroes,  be 

Cowards  who  may. 

O  Christ!    O  holy  One! 
Help  those  who  mourn  for  these 
To  cry,  "  Thy  will  be  done," 
When  weeping  on  their  knees. 
Oh,  turn  Thy  loving  face 
Toward  Thy  much-loved  race; 

Thy  tears,  O  Lord,  have  mingled  with  our  own, 

The  measure  has  been  given, 
O  Lord!  dear  Lord!  and  will  it  ne'er  be  filled? 

Must  Earth  still  cry  to  Heaven, 
That  brother's  blood  by  brother  yet  is  spilled? 

Help  us  to  turn  to  Thee, 
In  our  great  agony; 
Yea,  e'en  to  thank  Thee  for  the  pain, 
That  draws  us  unto  Thee. 


PEACE 

St.   Louis,  April,   1865. 

STILL  at  the  gate  of  Peace  and  all  her  joys, 
With  two-edged  sword  which  turneth  every  way, 
Stands  War,  an  angel,  though  of  dreadful  mien: 
The  future's  light,  thrown  backward,  makes  his  face 
like  day. 

For  she  will  come,  and  War  shall  lead  her  in, 
Well  pleased  that  all  his  dreadful  work  is  o'er. 
Mercy  and  Truth  shall  follow  in  her  train, 
While  Righteousness  and  Justice  go  before. 

Then  come,  sweet  Peace:  we  wait  to  hear  thy  voice, 

Sweeter  than  mother  singing  to  her  child 

At  hush  of  twilight;  lo!  our  very  hearts 

Are  hushed  to  catch  thy  greeting  soft  and  mild. 

Come,  we  will  weave  a  crown  for  thee  to  wear, 
Thou  shalt  be  queen,  and  crowned  with  white  and 

blue; 

We  know  where  rosy  blossoms  thickly  grow, 
But  thou  with  them  shalt  not  have  aught  to  do. 

Crimson  violets,  lilies  bright, 
With  a  glow  like  sunset  light, 


Blood-red  golden-rod  that  drips         f. 
Life-drops  from  its  slender  tips, 
Gory  asters,  stain  on  stain, 
Ne'er  to  be  washed  white  again. 
All  the  buds  that  spring  can  yield, 
All  the  flowers  of  summer  field, 
All  the  autumn's  lingering  pride, 
Crushed  and  torn  with  man  have  died. 
These  have  been  our  lot  too  long, 
No  more  such  in  wreath  or  song; 
But  cool  and  white, 
Airy  and  light, 
All  manner  of  blossoms  from  vine  and  from  spray, 

To  strew  in  her  way, 
The  bride  of  the  nation,  the  beauty,  the  queen, 

The  angel,  say  rather, 

Who  waves  her  white  wings,  where  the  war-cloud  was 
seen 

So  thickly  to  gather. 

Peace,  peace!  echo  the  bells. 
No  cannon  that  day,  — 
We  have  heard  their  dull  thunder 
Roll  above  and  shake  under 
Long  enough,  long  enough,  — 
No  cannon,  we  pray! 

Then  come,   sweet   Peace,   since   Freedom  bids  thee 

come. 
The  evil  sounds  which  frighted  thee  away, 

85 


The  driver's  lash,  the  sullen  clank  of  chains, 
The  wail  of  flaves,  shall  not  disturb  thy  sway. 

For  this  is  not,  as  when  thy  parting  feet 

Were  dipped  in  blood  on  Carolina's  shore, 

A  land  where  bondmen  groaned  and  freemen  quailed, 

But  now  we  all  are  free  forevermore. 

Come,  therefore,  in  fresh  robes,  washed  from  the  stains 
Which  soiled  their  whiteness  in  the  former  days, 
While  with  exultant  heart  the  nation  waits 
To  greet  thy  coming  and  to  shout  thy  praise. 


THE  AUTUMN  OF  PEACE 

THE  harvest-time  has  come  again 
To  orchard  trees  and  golden  plain, 
And  woods  of  every  gorgeous  stain. 

The  autumn  moon  looks  down  and  sees, 
Upon  a  thousand  misty  leas, 
Wheat-stacks,  like  stranded  argosies; 

She  sees  the  curling  vapor  rise 
Like  the  white  smoke  of  sacrifice 
Of  first-fruits,  to  the  kindly  skies; 

» 
She  sees  the  late  returning  wain, 

Pressed  'neath  the  heavy  sheaves  of  grain, 
And  hears  the  reapers'  jocund  strain. 

86 


And  over  all  the  land  is  poured 
A  quiet,  in  which  men  are  heard 
Beating  to  pruning  hooks  the  sword; 

A  distant  sound  of  forge  and  flail, 
Instead  of  battle  shout  and  wail, 
God's  blessing  sweetens  every  gale. 

God's  blessing  all  our  being  fills, 
And  gently  as  the  dew  distills 
Upon  the  waiting  vales  and  hills. 

The  harvest-time  has  come  again, 
But  in  each  well-reaped  field  and  glen 
The  harvest  has  been  fruit,  not  men. 

The  crimson  on  the  forest  leaves 

Is  not  the  dropping  from  life's  eaves; 

No  blood  is  sprinkled  on  the  sheaves. 

Ah!  now  we  feel  that  peace  of  yore 
Has  folded  her  white  wings  once  more, 
Whiter  and  purer  than  before. 

For  though  she  came  ere  spring  had  fled, 
We,  since  our  hearts  so  deeply  bled, 
Forgot  her,  weeping  for  our  dead. 

Come  down  into  our  hearts,  O  peace, 
And  let  thy  blessed  reign  increase, 
Till  war  and  death  forever  cease. 

87 


A   DIRGE   OF   SLAVERY 

I  HEARD  a  sullen,  hollow  sound, 
Come  from  the  regions  under  ground, 

Where  the  dead  nations  dwell; 
The  voice  of  all  that  murderous  clan, 
Who  plot  against  the  soul  of  man, 

To  drag  him  down  to  Hell. 

"  Hast  thou  become  as  we,"  it  cried, 
"  Cast  from  thy  fastnesses  of  pride, 

And  branded  for  thy  lies? 
The  cloak  of  light  is  rent  away, 
Which  made  thee  seem  the  child  of  day, 

Th'  apostle  of  the  skies. 

"  How  long  thy  reign!   beginning  when 
Nimrod,  the  first  who  hunted  men, 

Brought  on  the  iron  age. 
Thy  robes  are  crimson  with  the  blood 
Of  every  nation  since  the  flood, 

The  slain  of  thy  fell  rage. 

"  Curses  and  groans  and  bitter  tears 
Have  been  thy  food  through  countless  years, 

Sweet  morsels  for  thy  maw; 
Thy  spell  has  ever  broken  through, 


And  trespassed  on  th'  elysium  new, 
Which  the  old  prophet  saw. 

"  For  to  that  happy-fated  land 
Where  flying  freedom  took  her  stand 

And  keeps  the  world  at  bay, 
Thy  slimy  coil  insidious  crept, 
And  tight'ning  while  the  nation  slept, 

Half  choked  its  life  away. 

"  Then  murder,  lust,  oppression,  pride, 
Thy  banner  hailed  on  every  side, 

And  reveled  at  their  ease. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  shield, 
We,  well  protected  and  concealed, 

Drained  pleasure  to  the  lees. 

"  Then  war  and  all  her  hungry  train 

Swept  o'er  the  land  that  thou  might'st  reign, 

And  quench  thy  thirst  for  blood. 
Thy  victory  seemed  so  near  and  sure; 
Alas!  such  wrong  cannot  endure, 

Since  there  is  still  a  God. 

"  And  thou  art  fall'n  and  driven  back 
To  those  wild  tribes  whose  desert  track 

Is  white  with  dead  men's  bones. 
The  fetters  of  the  rescued  slave 
Are  laid  as  trophies  on  his  grave 

Who  hushed  the  bondman's  groans. 

89 


"Lie  down  with  us  in  black  despair; 
Like  wounded  beasts  we  seek  our  lair, 

And  gnash  our  teeth  in  pain:" 
Then,  lifting  up  a  horrid  cry, 
They  shook  their  chains  in  agony, 

Till  the  Pit  rang  amain. 


Written  for,  and  sung  at,  the  dedication   of   Colby 
Hall  of  Newton  Theological  Institution,  in  1866. 

ETERNAL  Wisdom,  who  dost  give 
The  skilful  hand,  the  ready  mind, 

Accept  the  offering  that  we  bring,  — 
A  thousand  gifts  in  one  combined. 

Accept  these  halls;  with  them  receive 

The  hard-earned  mite,  the  earnest  prayer, 

The  love  of  learning  and  of  truth, 
The  love  for  Thee;  for  all  are  there. 

May  Science  here  securely  dwell, 

Firm  as  the  granite  hills  around! 
Her  hand  upon  God's  Word,  her  brow 

With  rays  of  heavenly  lustre  crowned. 

Eternal  Truth,  Lord  Jesus  Christ! 

Here  let  Thy  light  and  glory  shine; 
Let  every  mind  and  every  heart, 

With  all  we  know  and  are,  be  Thine. 


90 


Written  in  1902,  for  Arbor  Day,  at  Morgan  Park, 
111.,  when  trees  were  planted  between  the  Baptist  Meet 
ing  House  and  the  Home  for  Missionaries'  Children. 

To  the  life-giving  breeze 

Stretch  forth  your  boughs,  ye  trees, 

'Mid  light  and  song. 
Strike  deep  your  roots  below, 
Wide  your  green  shadows  throw, 
Toward  the  glad  heavens  grow, 

Sturdy  and  strong. 

On  thee,  fair  Home  of  love, 
May  blessings  from  above 

Descend  in  showers. 
That  thy  strong  sons  may  stand 
Like  palms  in  many  a  land, 
Thy  daughters  be  a  band 

Of   lily  flowers. 

Thou,  too,  O  church,  most  dear, 
Flourish  immortal  here, 

Grounded  in  love; 
Watered  by  grace  divine, 
Fed  by  the  heavenly  Vine, 
And  each  ripe  fruit  of  thine 

Garnered  above. 


Read  at  the  celebration  of  Aunt  Lizzie  Aikcn's 
seventieth  birthday.  Aunt  Lizzie  was  born  in  Auburn, 
N.  Y.,  spent  her  girlhood  in  Vermont  and  her  early 
married  life  in  Western  Illinois.  She  was  an  army 
nurse  during  the  Civil  War  and  a  church  missionary 
in  Chicago  for  many  years. 

As  one,  who,  weary  on  a  rugged  height, 
Pauses  to  rest,  e'en  with  the  goal  in  sight, 
And  fondly  turns  to  view  the  landscape  wide, 
The  rushing  stream,  the  rocky  mountain  side, 
The  dreary  waste,  the  valley's  welcome  sod, 
All  the  long  road  his  hurrying  foot  has  trod, 
While  hope  and  memory  meet  in  fond  embrace, 
And  shed  a  double  brightness  o'er  the  place; 
So,  as  the  gliding  of  the  silver  spheres 
Brings  her  we  love  the  boon  of  seventy  years, 
We,  like  the  foot-sore  pilgrim,  would  again 
Traverse  in  thought  her  three-score  years  and  ten. 

At  the  horizon  'gainst  the  sky  she  sees 

Her  lovely  birthplace  gleaming  through  the  trees, 

Girdled  like  Ceres,  with  the  golden  grain, 

"  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain." 

Here,  where  the  light  first  cheered  her  infant  eyes, 

She  saw  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  arise, 

Here  learned  that  song  of  trust,  divinely  given, 

Which  makes  the  road  of  life  the  way  to  heaven. 

And  now,  Ascutney's  cloud-flecked  slopes  are  seen, 
And  mountain  pastures  vie  with  meadows  green, 

92 


New  England  skies  bend  over  pure  and  clear, 

The  song  of  many  birds  enchants  the  ear, 

The  lambs  are  frisking  in  the  valley  wide, 

The  breath  of  flowers  fills  all  the  country  side. 

In  this  fair  home,  'mid  pleasures  ever  new, 

Close  to  her  mother's  heart  the  maiden  grew. 

From  that  blest  haven,  from  her  father's  side, 

Out  to  the  restless  world  she  passed,  a  bride. 

Image  of  heaven!    Fair  haunt  of  girlhood's  years! 

The  eyes  that  greet  you,  smile  through  all  their  tears. 

Here,  where  the  moon  views  all  the  prairie  wide, 
And  scarce  a  leaf  can  in  the  shadow  hide, 
Bordered  with  bloom  and  carpeted  with  sod, 
She  finds  a  home  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God. 
As  lonely  as  a  ship  far  out  at  sea, 
Her  little  house  stands  on  the  boundless  lea; 
Here  in  the  silence,  often  in  the  dust, 
She  learns  anew  her  pilgrim  song  of  trust. 
Draw  we  a  veil  across  the  weary  years 
Sacred  to  sorrow  and  a  mother's  tears, 
As  one  by  one,  from  off  her  tender  breast, 
She  lays  her  babes  in  Jesus'  arms  to  rest; 
As  one  by  one  her  every  staff  and  stay 
In  swirling  floods  of  grief  is  swept  away, 
Till,  turning  full  of  anguish  from  the  door, 
She  bids  her  home  farewell,  forevermore. 

Down  in  yon  valley,  see  the  yellow  wheat 
Threshed  all  too  soon,  too  soon  by  hostile  feet; 

93 


See  the  sun  set,  and  the  moon  rise,  in  blood; 
Hear  from  the  ground,  cry  out  the  sanguine  flood. 
Valley  of  slaughter!    Shall  a  woman's  path 
Lead  through  the  myriad  horrors  of  God's  wrath? 
Let  those  who  saw  her,  answer  why  she  came, 
Leaning  on  Christ  and  blessing  in  His  name, 
Bringing  a  smile  to  brows  that  frowned  with  pain, 
Soothing  the  sleepless  couch,  the  fevered  brain, 
Feeding  the  hungry;  by  the  dying  bed 
Telling  of  Him  who  liveth  and  was  dead. 
When,  as  the  ghastly  night  came  sad  and  dim, 
She,  'mid  the  wounded,  sang  her  evening  hymn, 
They  knew  no  angel  sent  from  God  could  be 
So  good,  so  dear,  so  heavenly  kind  as  she. 

And  we  have  known  her  too.     For  many  a  day 
Her  path  and  ours  have  run  the  self-same  way. 
We  know  her  tireless  steps  to  help  the  poor, 
Her  zeal  to  do,  her  patience  to  endure, 
Her  love  for  those  who,  outcast  and  alone, 
She  fain  would  save  and  cherish  as  her  own. 
For,  like  a  fountain,  every  day  she  lives, 
Freely  receiving,  freely,  too,  she  gives. 

Three-score  and  ten !    Then  she  we  love  is  old ; 
Gone  is  her  silver  youth,  her  years  of  gold. 
Long  has  she  toiled.    Our  hearts  within  us  burn, 
For  all  her  goodness  to  make  some  return. 
Full  well  we  know  that  her  dear  Lord  one  day 
Will  take  her  home,  to  be  with  Him  for  aye. 

94 


Many  are  waiting  by  the  gate,  to  fly 

And  greet  her  fondly  as  she  passes  by. 

We  also  greet  her.    Long  may  it  be  ours 

To  strew  her  pathway  with  love's  fairest  flowers. 


95 


POEMS   DISTINCTIVELY 
CHRISTIAN 


WHAT  SHALL  I  RENDER  UNTO  THE  LORD? 

I  HAVE  a  treasure  fairer 

Than  pearls  beneath  the  sea, 

Than  all  the  gems  of  sunlit  lands: 
I  bring  it,  Lord,  to  Thee. 

My  costly  gift  to  Thee  I  bring 

So  gladly  for  Thy  part; 

Take  it  for  Thine.    This  precious  thing 
Is  my  heart. 

I  have  a  treasure  sweeter 

Than  the  treasures  of  the  bee, 

Than  all  the  blooms  of  wood  or  field: 
I  bring  it,  Lord,  to  Thee. 

White  clouds  of  incense  that  aspire 

All  earthly  clouds  above, 

A  censer  full  of  perfumed  fire 
Is  my  love. 

I  have  a  treasure  nobler, 

More  unsubdued  and  free 
Than  the  wild  unfurrowed  mountain: 

I  bring  it,  Lord,  to  Thee. 
I  place  in  Thy  controlling  hand 
This  power  of  good  or  ill: 
Wield  Thou  my  sceptre;  take  command 
Of  my  will. 

99 


I  have  a  treasure  deathless 

As  is  eternity, 
Outliving  sun,  and  moon,  and  star: 

I  bring  it,  Lord,  to  Thee. 
I  would  not  offer  Thee  a  part, 
But,  joyful,  give  the  whole; 
My  love,  my  will,  my  life,  my  heart, 
And  my  soul. 

How  poor  is  all  my  treasure, 

Lord,  when  compared  with  Thee, 

And  all  the  wealth  of  pitying  love 
Thou  hast  bestowed  on  me! 

And  yet  around  my  offerings  may 

A  light  supernal  shine, 

Since  when  Thou  dost  accept  them,  they 
All  are  Thine. 


ONLY  ONE  TALENT 

"Thine  handmaid  hath  not  anything  in  the   house, 
save  a  pot  of  oil."  —  II  Kings  iv,  2. 

OH,  what  am  I,  that  you  should  wait 

Thus  at  my  humble  door, 
For  how  can  I,  e'en  though  you  die, 

Divide  my  scanty  store? 
My  nights  are  full  of  anxious  care, 

My  days  are  hard  with  toil. 

100 


Riches  or  treasure  have  I  none, 
Except  my  pot  of  oil. 

Why  will  you  gaze,  and  break  my  heart 

With  wistful  looks  and  sad? 
To  feed  your  hungry  souls  with  bread 

Would  make  me  more  than  glad. 
Your  griefs  I  know,  your  bitter  wrongs 

Cause  my  quick  blood  to  boil; 
But  I  have  naught  to  save  or  share 

Except  my  pot  of  oil. 

It  came  to  me  from  One  who  felt 

Your  woes  as  well  as  mine; 
But  if  I  pour  it  out  for  you 

How  shall  my  own  lamp  shine? 
I  watch  it  closely  day  by  day, 

Lest  it  should  change  or  spoil. 
Why  will  your  eyes  demand  of  me 

My  precious  pot  of  oil? 

And  yet — it  was  bestowed  on  me; 

Perchance,  if  I  should  give, 
I  too  might  read  the  mystery 

That  bids  us  die  to  live; 
I  too  might  find  some  sunny  spot 

'Mid  all  this  grief  and  moil, 
If  I  should  fill  your  empty  jars, 

And  drain  my  pot  of  oil. 

101 


Then  bring  them  here,  of  every  size, 

And  bring  me  not  a  few. 
Long  as  it  lasts,  my  treasured  store 

I'll  share  with  each  of  you. 
Long  as  it  lasts!    It  does  not  stay! 

The  longer  that  I  toil 
To  empty  it,  the  fuller  grows 

My  flowing  pot  of  oil. 

"  Pour  "  was  the  word  the  Master  spake, 

"Till  every  jar  o'erflows; 
The  treasure  that  is  hidden  wastes, 

He  gains,  who  all  bestows. 
Long  as  an  empty  vessel  waits, 

Fear  not!   thyself  despoil. 
Enough  for  thee,  enough  for  all 

Is  in  thy  pot  of  oil." 


TRUST   IN   THE   UNSEEN 

THE  varied  beauties  of  Thy  face, 
It  was  not  ours  to  see, 
O  Man  of  men,  O  God  on  earth, 
Blest  from  eternity. 

When  Thou  didst  raise  the  sleeping  dead, 
And  wake  the  deadened  soul, 
We  did  not  hear  Thy  quickening  voice 
Speak  flesh  and  spirit  whole. 

1 02 


Yet  we  have  felt  that  mighty  word, 
Have  known  the  pardoning  smile 
Beaming  upon  us  from  the  skies, 
Though  hidden  for  awhile; 

As,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Waking  with  sudden  fear, 
The  child  puts  forth  its  helpless  hand 
To  feel  its  mother  near; 

It  does  not  need  to  hear  her  voice, 
It  does  not  care  to  see, 
But,  resting  on  her  loving  arm, 
Sleeps  in  security. 

So  though  we  cannot  see  Thee,  Lord, 
We  rest  upon  Thy  love, 
Content  in  darkness  as  in  light 
Thy  faithfulness  to  prove. 


GOOD -NIGHT 

A  LULLABY 

GOOD-NIGHT,  dear  child,  good-night; 

Sleep  in  thy  little  bed, 
So  soft,  so  lily  white, 

Beneath  thy  golden  head; 
Good-night. 

103 


Like  sunshine  on  a  flower, 

Thy  tresses  stray  adown 
The  pillow  in  a  shower, 

And  gild  thy  snowy  gown; 
Good-night. 

Feet,  restless  as  the  rain, 

Your  patter  dies  away 
Till  morning  wakes  again, 

And  calls  you  out  to  play; 
Good-night. 

Good-night,  dear  child,  good-night; 

Breathed  is  thy  evening  prayer; 
Thy  watch  of  angels  bright 

Comes  through  the  silent  air; 
Good-night. 

We  yield  thee  to  their  care, 

Until  the  shadows  flee, 
Content  that  they  should  share 

In  our  felicity; 
Good-night. 

SORROW 

WHEN  from  His  Father's  heart  of  love, 
And  from  His  Father's  throne, 
The  blessed  Saviour  stooped  to  make 
Our  grief  and  tears  His  own, 

104 


Though  myriad  angels  with  Him  came 
In  pomp  of  heavenly  state, 
He  turned  aside  to  take  the  hand 
Of  Sorrow  at  the  gate. 

She  walked  beside  him  all  the  way, 
She  led  His  weary  feet 
From  Bethlehem  till  Calvary 
Saw  sacrifice  complete. 

She  walked  with  Him,  to  her  He  gave 
Comforts  to  soothe  her  soul; 
He  wiped  her  tears,  her  broken  heart 
His  riven  heart  made  whole. 


SELF -SURRENDER 

0  LORD,  I  give  myself  to  Thee, 
Thou  art  my  hope  and  trust, 

Since  Thou  hast  stooped  from  heaven  to  me, 
And  raised  me  from  the  dust. 

1  leave  my  lifelong  hopes  and  fears, 
My  will  I  cast  aside, 

I  fain  would  have  no  will  but  Thine, 
Thou  who  for  me  hast  died. 

My  selfish  will  and  slavish  fear 
Have  held  me  captive  long; 

105 


Deliver  me  from  both,  O  Lord, 
Since  I  to  Thee  belong. 

And  lead  me  like  a  little  child, 
I  cannot  go  alone, 
I  fall  and  stumble  by  the  way, 
My  every  hymn  a  groan. 

Now  make  me  Thine,  entirely  Thine; 
I  cast  myself  on  Thee, 
I  long  to  run  the  heavenly  way, 
I  faint  Thy  face  to  see. 


I   AM   THINE 

LORD  JESUS,  I  am  Thine, 
No  more  my  soul  can  fear. 
Thy  holy  will  is  mine, 
Thy  presence  ever  near. 
E'en  in  the  darkest  night, 
Light  in  Thy  light  I  see; 
I  bless  Thee  for  the  sight, 
I  fix  mine  eyes  on  Thee. 

Choose  Thou  mine  onward  way. 
Oh,  lead  me  by  the  hand; 
So  will  I  trust  alway, 
Nor  seek  to  understand. 
Thou  who  dost  see  the  end, 

1 06 


Plan  Thou  my  life  for  me. 
My  Master  and  my  Friend, 
Shall  I  not  lean  on  Thee! 

If  of  the  cup  of  tears 

I  drink,  it  once  was  Thine; 

Bless  it  and  it  appears 

A  sacrament  divine. 

And  if,  by  Thy  command, 

On  sorrow  I  am  fed, 

It  is  Thy  pierced  hand 

That  breaks  the  bitter  bread. 

Thus,  through  the  joy  and  pain 
Of  my  brief  earthly  day, 
Lord  Jesus,  I  would  fain 
Walk  with  Thee  all  the  way; 
Walk  with  Thee  without  fear, 
Yea,  closer  to  Thy  side, 
When  death's  dark  gates  appear, 
Oh,  Living  One  who  died. 

According  to  Thy  word 
Soon  shall  Thy  servant  be, 
My  Master  and  my  God, 
In  Paradise  with  Thee. 
Fair  mansions  of  Thy  grace, 
Life's  bright,  unfading  shore! 
There  shall  I  see  Thy  face. 
Amen,  forevermore. 

107 


"  APPREHENDED   OF   CHRIST  JESUS" 

WHEN  I  resigned  my  will  to  Thine, 

Jesus,  there  came  at  last 
The  quiet  of  a  summer  sea, 

Whose  storms  are  past. 

No  more,  no  more  will  I  contend, 

But,  knowing  I  am  Thine, 
I  lay  me  down  to  rest  within 
Thy  hand  divine. 

Like  some  wild  bird  I  struggled  long 

To  free  me  from  Thy  hold, 

But  now  content,  in  perfect  peace 

My  wings  I  fold. 

Here  shall  my  rest  forever  be: 

Too  well  Thy  love  I  know 
To  fear  the  hand  that  bled  for  me 
Would  let  me  go. 

"THE   LIVING   TEMPLE" 

IN  souls  redeemed,  Thou,  Lord,  canst  see 
A  costly  temple  raised  to  Thee; 
Not  built  by  hands,  but  by  that  word 
Which  unborn  light  responsive  heard. 

1 08 


The  corner-stone,  that  precious  One 
Rejected  once,  Thy  holy  Son; 
All  the  foundations  are  the  same, 
His  wondrous  work,  His  wondrous  name. 

Slowly  as  islands  from  the  deeps, 
The  unfinished  structure  upward  creeps; 
Each  stone  of  faith,  each  gem  of  grace 
Is  laid  in  its  appointed  place. 

But  with  what  shoutings  shall  the  last, 
The  topmost  be  in  heaven  made  fast ; 
That  pure  white  stone,  whose  secret  name 
Shall  light  the  temple  as  a  flame. 

Hallowed  and  pure  through  Jesus'  blood, 
The  Father  shall  pronounce  it  good, 
And  in  His  righteousness  secure, 
Its  wall  shall  stand,  its  gates  endure. 


GOD'S  service  maketh  all  things  great: 

To  Him  there's  nothing  small. 
A  thousand  lives  we  cannot  see, 
Each  within  each;  how  wondrously 
He  careth  for  them  all. 

So  for  His  holy  house  He  gave 
A  pattern  fair  of  old; 

109 


Not  only  for  the  cherubim, 
Or  laver  with  its  lily  brim, 
But  for  the  bowls  of  gold. 

Anointing  oil  in  these  should  glow, 

In  these  the  purple  wine; 
The  first  fruits  of  the  ripening  field, 
And  sacrificial  blood  that  sealed 

A  covenant  divine. 

Symbols  of  human  life  were -they, 

Ever  before  the  Lord, 
Of  lowly  labors  manifold, 
These  golden  vessels  formed  to  hold 

Man's  offering  to  God. 

Humble  and  menial  was  their  place, 

And  so  perchance  is  mine; 
Yet  is  the  chalice  of  my  days 
An  altar  bowl  for  work  and  praise, 
My  life  a  thought  divine. 


GOD   OUR  STRENGTH 

DRAW  me  to  Thee,  my  God; 

Although  I  stray, 
My  longing  eyes  pursue 

The  narrow  way. 

no 


My  stumbling  feet  will  fail, 
The  path  is  steep; 

But  in  the  King's  highway 
I  will  not  weep. 

Draw  me  to  Thee,  my  God, 

Else  shall  I  fall; 
'Tis  only  by  Thine  aid 

I  climb  at  all. 

Yet  while  Thy  promise  stands, 

Why  should  not  I, 
With  all  Thy  conquering  hosts, 

Victory  cry? 


ILLUMINATE  THE   CROSS 

HUSHED  was  the  vast  cathedral. 

The  shadows  gathered  gray, 
The  footsteps  of  the  verger 

In  echoes  died  away. 

East  the  great  cross  stood,  shrouded 
In  veils  of  falling  gloom, 

And  westward  the  rose  window 
Showed  neither  light  nor  bloom, 

Until  the  sun,  slow  sinking, 
Just  touched  its  rim  with  light, 

in 


And  one  by  one  its  jewels 
Of  color  brought  to  sight. 

Far  down  the  shadowy  chancel, 
Athwart  the  shadowy  nave, 

The  rays,  a  tangled  rainbow, 
Touched  wall  and  architrave. 

Then,  reaching  like  a  finger 
The  shadowy  aisle  across, 

They  longest  rest  and  linger 
T'  illuminate  the  cross. 


Shine  through  us,  Sun  of  Glory! 

Though  now  as  dark  as  night, 
The  jewels  of  our  window 

Will  answer  to  Thy  light. 

The  emerald  of  courage, 

And  hope's  own  sapphire  ray, 

Shall  waken  from  their  darkness 
Thy  summons  to  obey. 

The  jasper  and  the  jacinth, 
The  topaz'  golden  blaze, 

The  amethyst's  deep  rapture 
Shall  kindle  in  thy  rays. 

112 


And  from  the  very  center, 
The  whole  dark  world  across, 

Shall  love's  own  burning  ruby 
Illuminate  the  cross. 

Shine  through  us,  Sun  of  Glory! 

The  world  is  very  drear, 
In  shadow  sit  the  nations, 

The  end  is  drawing  near, 

And  e'en  our  light  is  hidden, 
Our  beauty  none  can  see, 

We  too  dwell  in  the  darkness 
Unless  we  shine  in  Thee. 

In  vain  our  boasted  vantage, 
Our  gain  is  but  our  loss, 

Unless  our  bright  rose-windows 
Illuminate  the  cross. 


LOVEST   TO    THE   END 

"  Having   loved   his    own    that   were   in   the  world, 
he   loved   them   unto   the   end."  —  John   xiii,    i,   New   Ver. 

BLEST  Saviour,  who  didst  love  thine  own, 
Each  doubting  heart,  each  wavering  friend, 
Who  left  Thee,  grieved,  to  die  alone, 
Thou  lovedst  to  the  end. 

"3 


Thy  heart  divine,  with  love  replete, 

On  them  its  sweetness  did  expend; 

Their  love  was  cold  and  incomplete, 

Thou  lovedst  to  the  end. 

And  we,  who  through  their  word  believe, 
Unto  our  weakness  condescend, 
Let  us  this  precious  truth  receive, 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

Our  trials  Thou  dost  make  Thine  own, 
Our  doubting  souls  dost  comprehend, 
For  all  our  sins  Thou  didst  atone, 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

All  other  love  may  pass  away, 
All  other  friends  we  may  offend, 
All  other  bliss  lapse  in  dismay, 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

Trial  and  sorrow  bring  Thee  near, 
Death  only  leads  us  to  our  Friend, 
Not  only  now,  not  only  here, 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

But  when,  our  earthly  wanderings  past, 
To  heaven,  to  Thee  we  shall  ascend, 
Long  as  eternity  may  last 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 


Oh,  fill  us  with  the  love  of  God, 
Help  us  to  know  and  comprehend 
The  depths  of  that  most  precious  word, 
Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 


"  HE  SHALL  CARRY  THE  LAMBS 
IN   HIS   BOSOM  " 

THE  tender  shepherd  leads  the  sheep, 
And  watches  them  with  care; 
But  in  his  bosom  lie  the  lambs, 
At  rest  and  quiet  there. 

They  look  into  his  face,  they  hear 
The  beatings  of  his  heart, — 
What  danger  then  can  make  them  fear 
The  sharpness  of  its  dart? 

Before  the  influence  of  his  eye 
Their  foes  all  turn  and  flee, 
He  is  secure  from  earth  and  hell 
Who  trusts,  O  Lord,  in  Thee. 

To  death  itself,  with  all  its  waves, 
With  songs  and  smiles  they  come, 
They  trust  Thy  arms  to  bear  them  through 
Rejoicing  to  their  home. 

Oh,  Jesus,  what  so  blessed  lot 
Can  human  heart  conceive 


As,  safely  in  Thy  bosom  borne, 
To  quietly  believe. 

To  strive  no  more  for  holiness 
That  is  apart  from  Thee; 
To  rest  and  trust;  to  only  live 
Where  we  Thy  face  can  see. 

Oh,  happy  is  the  little  child, 
More  blest  the  childlike  faith, 
Which,  in  the  sunshine  of  God's  smile, 
Fears  neither  life  nor  death. 


THE    HEAVENLY    GATES 

Rev.   iii,   12;  xxi,  25. 

THE  pearly  gates  stand  open. 

Each  hinge  of  beaten  gold 
Hides  in  its  heart,  forever, 

A  melody  untold. 
Since  for  the  King  of  Glory, 

Returning  to  His  throne, 
The  two-leaved  doors  flew  open, 

Closed  have  they  been  to  none. 

The  pearly  gates  stand  open. 

Through  the  eternal  day, 
The  nations  of  the  ransomed 

Throng  up  the  shining  way. 

116 


No  night  can  cast  the  shadow 

Of  danger  and  of  fear, 
God  is  their  sun  forever 

Through  all  the  heavenly  year. 

The  pearly  gates  stand  open; 

But  those  who  once  pass  through, 
Their  wanderings  in  the  desert 

Shall  not  commence  anew. 
They  feel  no  inward  longing 

Their  footsteps  to  retrace, 
Nor  cast  one  look  behind  them 

Who  gaze  on  Jesus'  face. 

The  heavenly  gates  stand  open. 

What  is  it  keeps  them  out, 
That  weary  crowd  of  wailers 

Who  stand  and  weep  without? 
What  strange  mysterious  safeguard 

Protects  the  open  door, 
That  not  one  guilty  footstep 

Has  stained  the  crystal  floor? 

Ah!  soul,  why  wonder  further? 

Turn  but  one  glance  within. 
Thou  hast  the  dreadful  secret 

Hid  in  thy  heart  of  sin. 
That  heart  which  hates  its  Saviour, 

And  spurns  his  love  untold, 
Would  dread  the  pearly  portal 

And  shun  the  streets  of  gold. 

117 


HABAKKUK,    CHAPTER    III 

GOD  came  from  Teman  in  His  strength, 
And  filled  the  heavens  with  light; 
Holy  and  Just,  earth  sang  His  praise, 
And  blessed  His  glory  bright. 

Holding  all  power  within  His  hand, 
And  death  beneath  His  feet, 
He  stood,  unto  each  kingdom  proud 
Its  just  desert  to  mete. 

* 
I  saw  the  heathen  tents  afar, 

Trembling  with  awful  dread, 

The  hills  were  bowed  before  His  way, 

The  lasting  mountains  fled. 

The  deep,  that  saw  Thy  kingly  train, 
Uttered  a  dreadful  cry, 
And,  lifting  up  its  thousand  hands, 
Adored  Thy  majesty. 

The  sun  and  moon  Thy  spear  eclipsed, 
Thy  bow  was  naked  made; 
What  wonder  that  the  nations  were 
At  Thy  great  might  afraid! 

For  the  salvation  of  Thine  own, 
Thou  comest  forth,  O  Lord, 

118 


With  indignation  and  with  wrath, 
Thou  showest  Thyself  God. 

Although  the  vine  should  fail  to  bloom, 
The  land  with  famine  groan, 
Yet  will  I  joy  in  God,  my  strength, 
Who  battles  for  his  own. 


CHRIST'S    SACRIFICE 

MY  sacrifice  is  slain; 

The  holy  Lamb  of  God, 

To  expiate  my  sin, 

Pours  forth  His  saving  blood; 
What  pains  He  bore,  no  tongue  can  tell, 
To  save  my  soul  from  death  and  hell. 

Each  agonizing  sigh, 

Each  deep,  heartrending  groan 

Echoes  from  Calvary 

Wherever  sin  is  known; 
Through  every  heart's  black  misery 
That  echo  cries,  "  For  thee,  for  thee." 

The  thorns  upon  his  brow 

Are  but  the  symbol  dim 

Of  deadly  grief  and  throe 

Now  lacerating  him; 
That  holy  soul  by  woes  is  torn 
That  do  not  heed  the  outward  thorn. 

119 


Behold  Him,  O  my  soul, 
Look  up  to  Him  and  live, 
He  dies  to  make  thee  whole, 
He  weeps  lest  thou  shouldst  grieve; 
Nay,  hide  thy  face,  with  yonder  sun, 
From  the  foul  deed  which  thou  hast  done. 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  strife 
Now  fills  my  wretched  heart! 
I  came  to  thee  for  life, 
Shame  cries  aloud,  depart; 
Ah,  whither,  whither  can  I  flee, 
My  Saviour  —  victim  —  leaving  Thee? 

Nay,  weary  soul,  be  still. 

Shall  such  surpassing  love 

The  mission  not  fulfil 

That  brought  it  from  above? 
Accept  the  boon  of  Calvary, 
And  grateful  cry,  "  For  me,  —  for  me." 


EASTER    MISSIONARY    HYMN 

This  was  set  to  music  by  W.  H.  Doan. 

Lo!    Christ  the  Lord  is  risen, 
Our  Life,  our  Righteousness; 
He  burst  the  grave's  dark  prison, 
He  came  the  world  to  bless; 

1 20 


Let  us  who  see  His  glory, 
So  full  of  truth  and  grace, 
Declare  the  heavenly  story 
Of  peace,  in  every  place. 

To-day  the  love  of  Jesus 

In  heavenly  courts  is  sung; 

To-day  the  name  of  Jesus 

Is  praised  in  every  tongue; 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  mountains  " 

To  "  India's  coral  strand," 

The  gospel's  healing  fountain 

Is  known  in  every  land. 

Awake,  long  promised  morning, 
Glad  Easter  sun,  arise; 
Illumine  by  thy  dawning 
The  darkness  of  earth's  skies; 
Come,  Hope  of  every  nation,  • 
Thy  light  and  life  impart, 
Come,  Author  of  Salvation, 
And  dwell  in  every  heart. 


SHALL   I   BE  THERE? 

WHEN  the  angels'  touch  of  fire 
Lights  the  dead  world's  funeral  pyre, 
And  the  red  flames'  baleful  light 
Cuts  the  blackness  of  the  night, 

121 


In  more  black  despair, 
Shall  my  soul  be  there? 

When  the  weary  faithful  feet, 
Christ  shall  come  half-way  to  greet, 
When  the  angels  fly  to  bring 
All  His  saints  to  meet  their  King, 

Lord,  and  can  I  dare 

Hope  I  may  be  there? 

When  the  conquering  armies  come, 
White-robed,  palm-crowned  victors,  home, 
When  the  heavenly  gates  unfold, 
And  gleam  through  the  streets  of  gold, 

All  their  joys  to  share, 

Shall  I  too  be  there? 

When  before  His  Father's  face 
Stands  the  Saviour,  full  of  grace, 
Takes  th*e  joy  for  which  He  came, 
Calls  His  ransomed  ones  by  name, 

Jesus,  hear  my  prayer, 

Grant  I  may  be  there. 


THE  SMITTEN   ROCK 

SMITTEN  of  God  for  us! 
Thirsting  and  scorched  we  lay, 
The  water  all  was  gone 
And  sand  filled  up  the  way; 

122 


'Twas  then  the  smitten  rock  flowed  o'er, 
We  drank  and  lived  to  thirst  no  more. 

Along  the  weary  road, 

That  leads  to  Canaan's  hills, 

The  waters  from  the  rock 

Flow  on  in  deep'ning  rills; 

We  drink,  refreshed  we  onward  press, 

And  sing  e'en  in  the  wilderness. 

The  very  desert  blooms 
And  blossoms  as  the  rose, 
The  thorny  shrub  drops  balm 
Where'er  this  water  flows; 
Whoever  will  may  drink  and  know 
All  that  is  found  of  heaven  below. 

And  on,  forever  on 

The  healing  river  flows, 

The  fissure  in  the  rock 

No  mortal  power  can  close, 

Until  that  stream  from  'neath  God's  throne 

It  joins,  and  lo!  the  two  are  one. 


123 


GOD'S    CHILD    THROUGH    REDEMPTION 

BY  Thy  precious  blood,  dear  Jesus, 

Washed  and  reconciled, 
Let  me  be  Thy  heavenly  Father's 

True  and  loving  child. 

Thou  didst  come  to  seek  and  save  me, 

Though  so  far  astray; 
Thorns  and  mockings,  death  and  sorrow 

Filling  all  the  way. 

Thou  didst  seek  me  still  unwearied, 

Till,  upon  the  rood, 
On  Thy  hands  my  name  was  written 

In  redeeming  blood. 

With  that  blood,  Thy  name,  blest  Saviour, 

Write  upon  my  heart; 
That  I  may  be  Thine,  forever 

With  Thee  where  Thou  art. 


THE    HAPPY    DAY 

OH,  the  joyful,  happy  day! 
When  the  clouds  all  roll  away, 
And  to  our  enraptured  eyes, 
Like  a  star,  shall  Zion  rise. 


Oh,  the  joyful,  happy  day! 
When  our  feet,  no  more  to  stray, 
Washed  from  earthly  dust  and  sin 
Through  her  gates  of  pearl  pass  in. 

Oh,  the  joyful,  happy  day! 
When,  in  beautiful  array, 
They  embrace  us,  whom  our  tears 
Called  for  through  the  weary  years. 

Oh,  the  joyful,  happy  day! 
Whose  glad  morning  breaks  for  aye; 
Then  we'll  turn  and  look  our  last 
On  a  night  forever  past. 


GIVING    MY    HEART 

JESUS,  take  my  sinful  heart, 
Take  it  all  with  sin  defiled, 
Full  of  pain  and  sorrow's  smart, 
Doubting  fear,  foreboding  wild. 

Tis,  alas!  no  gift  for  Thee, 
Pure  and  holy  as  Thou  art, 
But  Thou  askest  it  of  me, 
Askest  nothing  but  my  heart. 

125 


All  the  wealth  of  earth  is  Thine, 
Thine  the  oceans  and  the  hills, 
Thought  and  fancy  cannot  climb 
To  the  height  Thy  fullness  fills. 

Still,  O  Lord,  with  fond  desire 
Thou  dost  crave  Thy  creature's  love; 
And  Thy  pity's  holy  fire 
Burns  all  other  flames  above. 

Take  then,  Lord,  my  guilty  soul, 

Take  my  sin-cursed  body,  too; 

Save  them,  cleanse  them,  make  them  whole, 

New  create  them  through  and  through. 

Dare  I  beg  some  humble  part 
Of  Thy  matchless  love,  from  Thee? 
Ah!  Thou  ne'er  hadst  wished  my  heart 
If  Thou  hadst  not  first  loved  me. 


GOD -ATTUNED 

WE  thank  Thee,  we  love  Thee,  O  Lord, 
We  praise  Thy  most  glorious  name, 
We  joy  in  the  thought  of  Thy  grace, 
From  ages  to  ages  the  same. 

Oh,  that  Thou  wouldst  touch  all  our  tongues, 
And  teach  them  to  worthily  sing; 

126 


Oh,  that  Thou  wouldst  tune  all  our  hearts, 
And  tighten  each  sin-loosened  string. 

Then,  then  shall  we  utter  Thy  praise, 
When  death  blows  this  dust  once  away, 
That  each  dulcet  stop  may  breathe  forth 
The  music  which  slumbers  to-day. 

Then,  then  shall  the  angels  rejoice, 
Complete  be  the  heavenly  song, 
When  the  blood-bought,  the  ransomed  shall  add 
The  strain  which  was  wanting  so  long. 


THE    FATHER'S    WELCOME 

THY  Father's  door  stands  open, 
O  wanderer,  return, 
Accept  the  joyful  token, 
His  grace  and  pity  learn. 

Thy  Father's  heart  is  ready 
To  greet  thee  and  forgive; 
Ah!  hear  the  invitation, 
"  Fly  unto  me  and  live." 

Thy  Father's  house  is  open, 
He  waiteth  at  the  door, 
He  has  looked  long  to  see  thee, 
He  calls  thee  o'er  and  o'er. 

127 


Arise  and  haste  to  meet  Him, 
As  He  comes  thee  to  greet, 
Cast  all  thy  sin  and  sorrow, 
Thyself  cast,  at  His  feet. 

Thy  Father  will  receive  thee; 
On  His  forgiving  breast, 
Thy  guilt  all  left  behind  thee, 
Thou  shalt  forever  rest. 


DELIVERANCE  FROM   SIN 

I  AM  weary  of  my  sin; 
Whither,  whither  shall  I  flee? 
Thou  canst  make  me  clean  within, 
Saviour,  I  will  fly  to  Thee. 

I  would  hide  me  in  Thy  breast, 
From  this  fierce,  this  tireless  foe; 
I  would  come  to  Thee  for  rest; 
Hold  me,  Lord,  nor  let  me  go. 

Though  I  put  my  hand  in  Thine, 
Walking  in  the  narrow  way, 
Though  I  see  Thy  glory  shine, 
Sin  still  haunts  me  night  and  day. 

It  is  not  enough,  O  Lord, 

That  Thou  takest  away  my  guilt; 

128 


Speak  one  saving,  freeing  word, 
Thou  whose  blood  for  me  was  spilt. 

Take  away  the  sin  I  hate, 
Let  me  conquer  though  I  die; 
Nothing  is  for  Thee  too  great, 
Thou  canst  free,  canst  purify. 

Give  me  Thy  sufficient  grace, 
Which  can  make  me  clean  within, 
Let  me  look  upon  Thy  face, 
See  Thy  smile  and  cease  to  sin. 


THE    SABBATH 

SWEET  Sabbath,  all  thy  hours  of  prayer 
And  hallowed  praise  are  past; 
With  what  a  wistful,  lingering  heart, 
I  part  from  thee  at  last. 

Guest  from  the  heavenly  land  of  peace, 
Thou  comest  to  hush  our  strife; 
One  day  in  seven  we  walk  with  thee 
The  blessed  way  of  life. 

And  now  to  heaven  thou  dost  return 
The  record  sad  to  bear 
Of  heartless  songs,  of  service  vain, 
Of  vacant,  soulless  prayer. 

129 


For  in  our  hearts  the  altar  fire 
Burns  down  to  ashes  soon; 
The  joy  of  morning,  like  the  dew, 
Is  dried  away  by  noon. 

We  strive  to  spend  one  day  with  God, 
But,  through  the  half  shut  door, 
The  whispering  world  attracts  our  thoughts, 
And  our  short  heaven  is  o'er. 

Oh,  shall  it  ever  be  that  this 
Sad  truth  must  be  confessed, 
That  we  who  say  we  love  our  God, 
Still  love  ourselves  the  best? 

Sweet  Sabbath,  injured  guest,  farewell, 
Yet  since  thou  must  depart, 
Drop  one  rich  blessing  from  thy  wing 
Deep  down  into  my  heart. 

And  let,  through  every  coming  day 
Until  thy  glad  return, 
Some  thought  of  thee  and  heaven  make 
My  heart  within  me  burn. 

JESUS   ADORED 

JESUS,  my  soul  adores  Thee 
And  loves  Thee  for  Thy  grace, 
Which  shines,  the  Father's  glory, 
Revealed  in  Thy  dear  face. 

130 


Here  at  Thy  Cross  of  Anguish 
I  lay  my  burdens  down; 
Thou  takest  all  my  sorrows 
And  givest  instead  a  crown. 

A  crown  of  joy  and  gladness, 
Oh,  happiness  complete! 
I  cannot  wait  till  heaven, 
To  cast  it  at  Thy  feet. 

Those  blessed  feet,  once  pierced, 
I  would  I  had  been  there, 
With  grateful  tears  to  bathe  them, 
And  wipe  them  with  my  hair. 

Oh,  holy  face  of  Jesus, 
Disfigured  once  for  me, 
Thou  art  the  sun  of  glory, 
Light  of  eternity. 

I  bless  Thee,  Christ  and  Saviour, 
I  love  Thee  for  Thy  love, 
I  prize  Thy  smile  and  favor 
All  other  joys  above. 


FOR   BAPTISM 

THOU  holy  Lamb  of  God, 

It  is  Thy  flowing  blood, 
Poured  out  for  me,  that  makes  me  clean. 

In  Thee,  in  Thee  I  claim, 

And  solely  through  Thy  name, 
A  heart  in  which  no  stain  is  seen. 

Even  the  Father's  eye 

No  longer  can  espy 
Aught  that  its  purity  offends. 

He  looks  upon  Thy  face, 

Its  beauty  and  its  grace 
He  sees  reflected  in  Thy  friends. 

And  now,  with  humble  love, 

My  outward  act  would  prove 
And  seal  the  purchase  Thou  hast  made. 

Where  I  Thy  footsteps  see, 

I  would  most  joyfully 
Obey,  e'en  as  my  Lord  obeyed. 

Oh,  what  a  joy  it  is, 
What  ecstasy,  what  bliss, 
To  tread  the  path  which  Thou  hast  trod, 
Jesus,  to  follow  Thee 

132 


To  all  eternity, 
To  die  to  sin,  to  live  to  God. 

Hold  me  and  keep  me  true, 

Whate'er  I  think  or  do; 
'Tis  only  in  Thy  strength  I  stand. 

My  comfort  and  my  bliss, 

My  only  safeguard  is 
Thy  pardoning  love,  Thy  helping  hand. 


OUR  SAVIOUR -KING 

OF  Jesus,  our  Saviour,  we  joyfully  sing, 
And  humbly  adore  Him,  our  Ruler  and  King. 
Oh,  happy  the  land  that  submits  to  His  reign; 
His  service  is  freedom;  He  breaks  every  chain. 

REFRAIN  — 

Oh,  sing  of  our  Saviour-King, 
Sing  of  our  Saviour-King, 
Sing  of  our  Saviour-King, 
Mighty  to  save. 

Oh,  crown  Him  with  praises,  the  friend  of  the  weak; 
He  sends  forth  His  servants,  the  erring  to  seek; 
No  soul  He  created  shall  e'er  be  forgot, 
No  creature  so  poor  that  the  Lord  knows  him  not. 

Though  seated  in  glory,  the  Lamb  on  the  throne 
Is  with  us  forever  to  succor  His  own; 

133 


His  power,  His  goodness  shall  carry  clear  through 
The  work  He  has  chosen  His  children  to  do. 

Oh,  trust  in  His  mercy,  take  hold  on  His  strength; 
He  has  led  us  thus  far,  we  shall  triumph  at  length 
And  the  land  that  we  love,  from  sea  unto  sea, 
The  land  of  Immanuel,  our  Saviour,  shall  be. 


DAY  OF   LIGHT   AND    GLADNESS 

Tune  —  "  Vesper  Hymns"  — 7's  and  8's. 

HAIL,  blest  day  of  light  and  gladness 
Which  our  eyes  with  joy  behold  — 

Darkest  clouds  of  sin  and  sadness 
Flee  before  thy  rising  gold. 

See,  the  mountain  tops  are  gleaming 
And  the  valleys  catch  the  glow; 

Soon  the  blessed  sunlight  streaming 
Shall  the  whole  dark  earth  o'erflow. 

Hasten,  hasten  in  thy  glory 
Where  the  tribes  in  shadow  lie, 

Until  death  itself,  grown  hoary, 
From  excess  of  light  shall  die. 


134 


LIGHT -HOUSE  LAMPS 

Air  —  "He  Leadeth  Me." 

HELP  us  'mid  life's  wild  waves  to  shine 
Bright  light-house  lamps  o'er  rock  and  brine, 
To  guide  the  wand'rers  on  that  sea 
To  a  safe  harbor,  Lord,  in  Thee. 

REFRAIN  — 

To  shine  for  Thee,  to  shine  for  Thee, 
Help  us,  O  Lord,  to  shine  for  Thee. 
Lights  in  the  world  we  fain  would  be, 
Help  us,  O  Lord,  to  shine  for  Thee. 

Help  us  on  time's  dark  hills  to  blaze 
Strong  beacon-fires  with  steadfast  rays, 
To  lead  the  lost  and  erring  right, 
To  urge  the  lingering  to  the  fight. 

Help  us  on  every  darksome  way 
To  hold  the  gathering  shades  at  bay, 
Like  sunbeams  clear,  to  light  the  road 
That  leads  to  happiness  and  God. 

Help  us,  O  God,  each  in  his  place, 
Fed  by  the  sacred  oil  of  grace, 
Like  temple  lamps  forever  bright, 
To  burn  before  Thee  day  and  night. 

135 


THE    GOSPEL    TRIUMPHANT 
Tune—  "Hark,  Ten  Thousand  Harps  and  Voices.' 

JESUS,  hail!  the  King  of  Glory, 

Earth  rejoices  in  Thy  sway; 
Heathen  nations  hear  Thy  story, 

Heathen  darkness  yields  to  day. 

Every  idol  falls  before  Thee, 

Seeks  the  night  from  whence  it  came, 

While  ten  thousand  souls  adore  Thee, 
Trophies  of  Thy  saving  name. 

Zion,  wake,  and  hail  the  morning; 

Zion,  rise,  and  greet  thy  king; 
Like  the  birds,  in  this  glad  dawning, 

Lift  thy  voice  and  joyful  sing. 

Sing  till  Jesus'  worthy  praises 

Sound  in  every  palmy  grove; 
Till  each  jungle's  tangled  mazes 

Echo  with  His  matchless  love. 


136 


GOD'S    GLORIOUS    DAY 

Tune  —  "Must  Jesus   Bear  the  Cross  Alone." 

GOD'S  glorious  day  will  surely  come, 
E'en  now  the  hour  makes  haste; 

The  dry  land  gleams  with  water  brooks, 
And  blooms  the  barren  waste. 

Upon  the  distant  mountain  tops 
The  watchmen  lift  their  voice; 

The  islands  'mid  the  far-off  seas 
Have  heard  them,  and  rejoice. 

The  nations  leave  their  broken  gods, 

And  hasten  to  proclaim 
Immanuel,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

And  bless  His  saving  name. 

How  blest  the  eyes  that  shall  behold 

That  glory  promised  long; 
How  blest  the  ears  that  glad  shall  hear 

That  earth-encircling  song. 


137 


A   FRIEND 

From  the  German  of  Julius  Pabst. 

MOURNFUL  long  I  stood  and  lone, 
Oft  my  deepest  soul  made  moan; 
How  forsaken  was  my  case, 
Since  I  would  so  fain  embrace 

A  friend, 

And  still  had  none. 

Ah!  no,  not  one 

Who  loved  me  truly. 

Warm  and  quickly  beat  my  heart 
Oft  for  joy,  and  oft  for  smart, 
Gladly  would  it  overflow, 
Share  its  pleasure  and  its  woe 

With  a  friend, 

And  still  had  none. 

Ah!  no,  not  one 

Who  loved  me  truly. 

Oft  my  tearful  eyes  around 
Longing  searched,  but  no  one  found, 
Who  to  know  my  heart  was  given; 
And  my  prayers  besieged  high  heaven 

For  a  friend; 

Ah!  but  for  one, 

138 


A  faithful  one, 
To  love  me  ever. 

See,  then  from  the  heavenly  land 
Jesus  came,  and  laid  His  hand 
On  my  heart,  which  now  grew  still; 
Peaceful  thoughts  my  bosom  fill 

Of  a  friend. 

The  earth  hath  none 

Such  faithful  one, 

Who  loves  me  ever. 


THE    APPLE    BLOSSOM 

Adapted  from  the   German. 

WHILE  musing  through  the  wak'ning  fields 

Of  blooming  spring  I  strayed, 
I  saw  the  orchards  in  their  robe 

Of  white  and  red  arrayed. 

A  blossom  from  the  apple-tree 

I,  thoughtful,  bore  away, 
And  read  me,  from  its  fragrant  leaves, 

The  sermon  of  the  May. 

How  dainty  is  its  little  cup! 

How  sweet  its  perfumed  wine! 
Its  beauty  is  my  Father's  thought, 

He  drew  each  tender  line. 

139 


No  creature  is  so  mean  or  small, 

But,  rightly  understood, 
Reveals  His  wisdom  and  His  power, 

Proclaims  Him  mild  and  good. 

Yes,  even  in  this  apple  flower, 

As  in  a  glass,  I  view 
My  Saviour's  spotless  image  traced 

In  touches  firm  and  true. 

Tis  red  without,  since  holy  blood 
To  cleanse  my  sin  must  flow; 

But  ah!  how  white  the  soul  within 
No  apple-bloom  can  show. 


"  SALVE    CAPUT    CRUENTATUM  " 

This  great  passion-hymn  of  Bernard  is  the  fountain 
from  which  some  of  our  most  beautiful  religious  poems 
have  flowed;  but  no  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  at 
tempted  anything  like  a  literal  translation  of  it.  Ger- 
hardt's  German  hymn  beginning  "  O,  Haupt  roll  Blut 
und  Wunden,"  catches  the  spirit  of  the  Latin  hymn, 
but  is  far  from  a  representation  of  its  real  contents; 
while  Mrs.  Charles's  rendering  of  it,  found  in  SchafFs 
"  Christ  in  Song,"  treats  the  original  with  great  free 
dom,  the  thought  of  which  often  merely  suggests  her 
own.  Whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  these  stanzas,  I 
have  endeavored  faithfully  to  reproduce  in  them  the 
thought  of  Bernard's  hymn.  The  number  of  syllables 
in  the  Latin  hymn  and  in  this  translation  is  the  same. 

HAIL,  holy  head!  blood-stained  and  torn, 
Crowned  only  with  the  cruel  thorn, 

140 


So  crushed  and  wounded,  marred  and  bruised, 
And  by  the  smiting  reed  abused, 

O  face  so  vilely  spat  upon! 
Hail!  Thou  whose  countenance  most  sweet 
Is  changed,  and  with  distress  replete, 
Changed  all  its  freshness  and  its  bloom, 
For  the  dread  pallor  of  the  tomb, 

Thee  angels  trembling  look  upon. 

Vigor  and  life  are  faded  quite  — 
I  turn  in  sadness  from  the  sight; 
Death  sets  his  seal  upon  Thy  brow, 
All  weakness  hangs  Thy  body  now, 

Worn  and  consumed  by  agony. 
Thus,  in  affliction  and  disdain, 
For  me  rejected,  suffering,  slain; 
Though  I  by  sin  am  worthless  made, 
With  all  those  marks  of  love  displayed, 

O  glorious  face,  appear  to  me. 

In  this,  Thy  passion  and  Thy  blood, 
Own  me  as  Thine,  O  Shepherd  good; 
From  the  pure  fountain  of  Thy  lips 
The  sweetest  milk  and  honey  drips, 

Sweeter  than  earth's  delicious  charms. 
Me,  though  condemned,  still  do  not  spurn, 
Nor,  though  unworthy,  from  me  turn; 
As  death  draws  near,  Thy  head  divine 
Hither  in  mercy,  Lord,  incline, 

And  dying,  rest  Thee  in  my  arms. 

141 


In  this,  Thy  holy  sacrifice, 
Let  me,  rejoicing,  sympathize; 
Grant,  since  I  love  Thy  cross,  that  I 
Upon  this  cross  with  Thee  may  die; 

Beneath  it  my  last  hour  I'll  spend. 
Dear  Jesus,  for  Thy  bitter  death 
I'll  thank  Thee  with  my  latest  breath; 
Thou,  who  art  God  so  full  of  grace, 
Hear  when  Thy  guilty  suppliant  prays, 

And  be  Thou  with  me  to  the  end. 

When  I  in  death  at  length  must  groan, 
Ah!    leave  me  not  to  die  alone; 
In  that  tremendous  hour  I  pray 
Come,  Jesus,  come  without  delay, 

Defend  me,  Lord,  and  set  me  free. 
When  Thou  dost  bid  me,  Jesus  dear, 
From  earth  depart,  then,  then  appear, 
O  Friend,  most  loving  to  my  soul  — 
Upon  that  cross  which  makes  me  whole 

Thy  very  self  show  Thou  to  me. 


142 


THE   BIOGRAPHY 


THE   BIOGRAPHY 


I.     ANCESTRY  AND  EARLY  TRAVELS 

MY  wife,  Mary  Eleanor  Roberts,  daughter  of 
Elbridge  Gerry  and  Mary  Kendall  Freeman  Roberts, 
came  of  sturdy  New  England  stock.  Her  paternal 
forebears,  John  Roberts,  born  in  Ipswich  in  1646,  and 
Hannah  Bray,  his  wife,  made  Gloucester,  Massachu 
setts,  their  home.  In  1667,  they  settled  in  West 
Gloucester,  then  called  the  West  Parish,  on  a  piece  of 
land  granted  him  by  the  town  for  his  prowess  in 
fighting  the  Indians. 

A  few  years  ago,  when  Mary  and  I  were  spending 
a  summer  vacation  in  that  charming  seaside  city,  we 
visited  the  quaint  old  house,  built  by  John  Roberts, 
with  its  huge  oak  beams,  low  ceilings,  cavernous  cup 
boards,  great  fireplace,  high  wainscoting  and  heavy 
doors  hung  on  long  wrought-iron  hinges.  Mary  had 
seen  it  once  before,  when  it  was  being  repaired,  and 
those  then  occupying  it  gave  her  one  of  the  door 
hinges  as  a  souvenir  of  the  house  of  her  ancestors. 
She  had  the  hinge  neatly  mounted  on  a  board  twenty- 
five  by  ten  inches,  and  opposite  the  small  end  of  it 

145 


she  had  painted  in   white  and  golden  letters  these 
original  lines: 

Through  the  door  that  turn'd  with  me, 
In  and  out  the  tide  of  life 
Ebbed  and  flowed  unceasingly, 
Full  two  hundred  years. 

Thou  that  readest,  wouldst  thou  see 
All  their  joy  and  all  their  strife? 
Ask  the  heart  that  stirs  in  thee; 
Measure  thine  own  tears. 

Her  paternal  grandfather,  Charles  Lincoln  Roberts, 
was  a  prosperous  ship-chandler  of  Gloucester.  He 
built  a  square,  commodious  house  on  Middle  Street. 
He  married  Elizabeth  Low,  one  of  the  family  of  the 
ancestors  of  the  late  Seth  Low  of  New  York.  Ten 
children  were  the  fruit  of  this  union.  The  parents 
were  persons  of  devout  piety,  Universalists  of  the  older 
type,  who  believed  that  Christ  by  His  death  secured 
the  ultimate  salvation  of  every  individual  of  our  race. 
They  daily  read  the  Scriptures  at  the  hour  of  family 
worship  and  prayed  with,  and  for,  their  children. 
They  also  required  each  of  them  to  learn  by  heart  a 
passage  of  the  Bible  every  Lord's  Day. 

The  outcome  of  this  careful  Christian  training  must 
have  been  disappointing  to  these  pious  Universalist 
parents  since  seven  of  their  children  became  Baptists 
and  three  Presbyterians.  And  one  of  the  three  that 
united  with  the  Presbyterian  Church  insisted  on  de 
claring  his  faith  in  Christ  by  immersion,  and  was  bap- 

146 


tized  by  William  R.  Williams  of  the  Amity  Street 
Baptist  Church,  New  York. 

On  her  mother's  side,  her  ancestry  is  still  more 
distinguished.  It  reaches  back  in  direct  line  to  Will 
iam  Brewster,  who  came  to  Plymouth,  Massachusetts, 
in  the  Mayflower,  on  her  first  voyage,  and  to  Thomas 
Prence  — -  sometimes  written  Prince  —  who  was  one  of 
the  Leyden  Pilgrims  and  the  Governor  of  Plymouth 
Colony  for  twenty  years.  Her  maternal  grandfather 
was  Gorham  Lovell  Freeman,  a  native  of  Brewster, 
Cape  Cod,  a  Boston  business  man,  the  head  of  the 
dry-goods  house  —  famous  in  its  day  —  of  Freeman 
and  Cobb. 

He  was  also  a  downright,  manly  Christian.  For  a 
time  he  seriously  contemplated  entering  the  Christian 
ministry,  and  while  he  finally  decided  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  continue  in  business,  he  remained  a  very 
active  member  of  the  Church  and  for  some  years  was 
a  tower  of  strength  to  Dr.  Thomas  Baldwin,  pastor 
of  the  Second  Baptist  Church  of  Boston. 

He  was  distinguished  as  a  liberal  and  unostentatious 
giver  to  benevolent  objects.  Tract  Societies,  home 
and  foreign  missions,  theological  institutions  and  Sun 
day  Schools  were  the  recipients  of  his  generous  gifts. 
He  also  had  marked  literary  ability,  which  manifested 
itself  in  occasional  addresses  on  Christian  experience 
and  efficiency  and  in  his  writing  of  both  prose  and 
poetry.  But  his  great  usefulness  soon  came  to  a 
seemingly  untimely  end.  When  only  thirty- four  years 
old  he  died  of  consumption,  at  Nice,  whither  he  had 

147 


fled  with  the  vain  hope  of  escaping  from  that  relent 
less  disease. 

Keen  intellect  and  fervent  piety  were  combined 
in  Mary's  maternal  grandmother,  Mary  Kendall.  Like 
her  Lord,  she  lived  for  the  good  of  others.  She  strove 
earnestly  to  win  the  impenitent  to  faith  in  Christ, 
and  did  much  to  alleviate  the  suffering  of  the  poor 
and  sick.  After  her  husband's  death,  she  found  her 
greatest  comfort  in  doing  the  duties  of  a  manager  of 
the  Widows  and  Fatherless  Society.  To  relieve  dis 
tress  she  gave  bountifully  from  her  own  purse  and 
aided  in  distributing  the  money  liberally  donated  by 
her  brother-in-law,  Nathaniel  Cobb.  Like  her  hus 
band  she  possessed  rare  literary  talent.  She  was  a 
clear,  forceful  writer,  and  like  him  she  too  died  early, 
passing  consciously  and  peacefully  away  at  the  age 
of  thirty-two. 

These  grandparents  left  several  children.  The  old 
est  of  them  was  a  beautiful  young  woman  with  black 
eyes  and  black  hair,  and  a  fair  skin,  whose  bright 
color  changed  with  every  strong  emotion.  Elbridge 
Gerry  Roberts  of  Gloucester,  who  had  already  per 
manently  left  his  native  home,  loved  and  won  her. 
In  September,  1835,  they  were  married  in  Brookline, 
Massachusetts,  and  were  spoken  of  by  all  who  knew 
them  as  an  unusually  handsome  bride  and  groom. 
To  crown  all,  both  of  them  were  decided  Christians 
and  faithful  church  members.  Their  only  daughter, 
Mary,  was  born  in  Roxbury,  Massachusetts,  July  21, 
1840.  From  the  facts  above  presented  it  is  clear  that 

148 


she  was  an  offshoot  of  a  strong,  intellectual  Christian 
ancestry. 

Her  father,  a  merchant,  was  a  partner  in  the  dry- 
goods  house  of  Roberts  Brothers,  New  York.  For 
some  years  he  was  the  buyer  for  the  firm  in  foreign 
markets.  In  the  discharge  of  his  duties  he  frequently 
went  to  England,  often  alone,  but  occasionally  he  took 
his  household  with  him,  and  for  months  they  resided 
in  some  English  city  or  town.  When  his  daughter 
was  only  eighteen  months  old,  in  January,  1842,  he 
sailed  with  his  family  for  England  on  the  Great 
Western,  the  first  regular  steam  packet  that  carried 
passengers  between  New  York  and  Liverpool.  Young 
as  little  Mary  was,  she  remembered  being  tied  in  a 
chair  on  deck  to  keep  her  from  creeping  overboard. 
Of  this  voyage,  going  and  returning,  she  could  recol 
lect  nothing  more. 

In  1845,  Mr.  Roberts  took  his  whole  family  across 
the  ocean  to  England  in  a  packet  sailing  ship,  the 
Ashburton.  For  two  or  three  months  a  hired  fur 
nished  house  in  Manchester  was  their  home.  This 
house  Mary,  when  grown  to  womanhood,  could  but 
dimly  call  to  mind;  but  she  did  distinctly  remember 
her  rides  in  the  carriage  with  her  mother,  some  heads 
of  ripened  wheat,  to  her  then  a  thing  absolutely  new, 
shown  her  by  the  coachman,  who  told  her  how  they 
grew  in  the  fields,  her  low  socks  that  were  prone  to 
disappear  in  her  ankle-tie  shoes,  hurting  the  soles  of 
her  feet  by  rolling  into  folds  under  them,  and  her 
pink  parasol,  of  which  she  was  very  proud. 

149 


As  the  summer  advanced  the  family  removed  to 
the  village  of  Bowden,  near  Manchester.  While  in 
this  suburban  place,  Mrs.  Roberts  often  took  walks 
with  her  two  children,  Edward  and  Mary.  In  after 
years,  Mary  fondly  called  to  mind  the  green  lanes 
and  daisied  fields  where  they  rambled.  Well  she  re 
membered  a  cottage  with  a  thatched  roof,  and  a 
bright,  prim  garden-border  running  up  to  the  door 
from  a  wicket  gate,  where  in  their  strolls  they  often 
stopped,  and  an  old  woman  in  a  blue  dress  and  a  big 
white  cap  sold  them  cups  of  milk,  which  they  drank, 
sitting  on  the  doorstep.  She  herself  says,  "  In  the 
border  grew  old-time  flowers,  stockgillies  and  sops-in- 
wine.  I  never  see  Brompton  Stocks  or  garden  pinks 
without  a  vision  of  the  Bowden  cottage  and  my  pretty 
young  mother.  There  are  but  few  links  of  association 
between  us  and  I  have  always  been  glad  that  the 
perfume  of  a  flower  has  the  magical  power  to  show  me 
her  face." 

In  October,  1846,  Mrs.  Roberts  with  her  children 
and  servant  sailed  for  New  York  on  the  same  ship, 
the  Ashburton,  that  the  year  before  brought  them  to 
England.  Mary,  though  but  six  years  old,  never  for 
got  the  droning  songs  of  the  sailors  as  they  pushed 
the  heavy  iron  bars  of  the  capstan,  or  reefed  the  sails, 
or  holystoned  the  decks,  —  "  Brandy  and  gin,  brandy 

and  gin,"  or 

"  A  wild   goose   motion, 

A-sailing  on  the  ocean, 
Is  a  very  pretty  motion, 
A  very  pretty  motion." 

150 


A  part  of  the  passage  was  very  rough.  The  rage  of 
the  sea  so  deeply  impressed  her,  that,  more  than  sixty 
years  after,  she  vividly  described  their  experiences  in 
the  fiercest  storm  that  overtook  them.  "  Suddenly  a 
squall  out  of  some  unforeseen  quarter  threw  the  vessel 
far  over  onto  her  side,  and  at  the  same  time  a  wave 
sweeping  over  the  deck,  broke  the  lights  above  the 
saloon.  The  water  poured  in,  swept  all  the  dishes 
from  the  table  to  the  floor  and  broke  half  of  them. 
The  water  was  almost  ankle-deep,  and  I  remember 
well  how  gaily  the  plates  and  glasses  bobbed  about 
as  the  ship  swayed  to  and  fro."  So  the  little  daughter 
of  the  household  was  being  educated  on  the  sea  by 
storm  and  tempest. 

Once  more,  in  1853,  Mr-  Roberts  sailed  to  England 
with  all  his  family,  except  his  older  son.  They  made 
the  passage  on  a  Cunarder,  the  Baltic.  At  first  they 
found  lodgings  in  London,  not  far  from  the  British 
Museum.  Now  began  a  new  chapter  in  Mary's 
education.  When  she  and  her  younger  brother  were 
sent  out  to  walk,  asking  no  questions  before  they 
started  and  telling  no  tales  after  their  return,  for  a 
good  many  days  they  went  straight  to  the  British 
Museum,  preferring  the  sights  there  to  the  dingy  streets 
that  were  often  enveloped  in  fog.  Layard  had  then 
just  begun  to  send  home  from  Nineveh  sculptured, 
bull-headed  lions;  these  and  hundreds  of  other  inter 
esting  objects  daily  delighted  and  instructed  these 
susceptible,  inquisitive  children. 

Mr.  Roberts,  finding  it  necessary  to  return  to  New 


York  and  expecting  soon  to  come  back  to  England, 
found  lodgings  for  his  family  at  Leamington  in  War 
wickshire.  During  the  winter  his  daughter  and 
younger  son  were  tutored  two  hours  a  day  in  their 
lodgings,  but  when  spring  came  even  this  small  amount 
of  instruction  was  intermitted,  and  the  children,  with 
the  consent  of  the  head  of  the  house,  gave  themselves 
up  to  exploring  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  lovely 
country  around  Leamington.  In  Mary's  own  words: 
"  Up  and  down  the  lanes,  in  and  out  through 
woods  and  meadows,  over  stiles  and  across  rustic 
bridges,  we  studied  the  geography  and  history  of  the 
whole  countryside,  till  we  knew  it  by  heart.  We 
watched  the  hedges  bloom,  we  gathered  daisies  in  the 
grass  and  primroses  in  the  lanes.  We  went  frequently 
to  Warwick.  Its  castle,  its  church,  its  Beauchamp 
Hospital  became  very  familiar  to  us.  Ivy-covered 
Kenilworth  we  visited  two  or  three  times.  We  knew 
the  whole  place  and  Walter  Scott  was  our  entrancing 
guide.  Fancy  what  a  treat  this  was  for  a  girl 
of  thirteen!" 

In  April,  1854,  the  family  again  crossed  the  Atlantic 
to  New  York,  in  the  same  steamship,  the  Baltic.  The 
passage  had  enough  danger  in  it  to  make  it  piquant. 
The  captain  ran  the  vessel  for  a  long  distance  into 
a  vast  ice-field  from  which,  the  channel  closing  before 
him,  he  was  compelled  to  back  out.  In  a  fierce  storm, 
Mary  remembered  well  stealthily  creeping  up  on  deck, 
clinging  to  the  railing  without  any  sense  of  danger, 
and  greatly  enjoying  the  fury  of  the  sea;  and  also 

152 


being  on  deck  when  the  fog  suddenly  lifted,  disclosing 
an  iceberg  close  at  hand. 

So  the  scenes  of  beautiful,  rural  England  and  of  the 
storm-lashed  ocean  with  its  glittering,  menacing  ice 
floes  were  woven  into  her  childish  mind  and  became 
part  and  parcel  of  her  very  being.  Before  she  was 
fourteen  she  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  six  times,  twice 
in  a  sailing  ship.  These  rovings  over  land  and  sea 
early  implanted  within  her  an  ardent  love  of  travel. 
In  after  life  she  was  always  exquisitely  happy  when 
ever  she  was  permitted  to  journey  to  new  places  and 
to  look  upon  new  scenes.  Southern  California,  with 
its  wealth  of  flowers  even  in  midwinter,  was  her  special 
delight.  The  fiords  of  Norway,  thrust  in  between  the 
precipitous  mountains  of  its  wild  and  rocky  coast, 
enchanted  her;  while  the  North  Cape,  glowing  under 
the  midnight  sun  and,  in  July,  bedecked  with  double 
buttercups,  and  the  sea,  in  which  it  dips  its  foot, 
touched  by  the  sunbeams,  rippling  like  liquid  gold, 
captivated  her.  The  mountains  of  Switzerland  with 
gleaming  lakes  at  their  feet,  vineyards,  orchards, 
meadows,  pastures  and  forests  on  their  sides,  their 
heads  wrapped  about  with  eternal  snow,  on  which  she 
looked  and  some  of  which  she  climbed,  were  to  her  a 
source  of  unending  pleasure.  Whatever  scenes  of 
beauty  and  grandeur  she  surveyed  became  her  per 
manent  possession.  Ever  after  they  vividly  lived  in 
her  imagination. 

Her  intense  desire  to  travel,  she  said,  was  aptly 


153 


expressed    in    the    following    stanzas    by    Josephine 
Preston  Peabody: 

"The  little  Road  says,  Go, 
The  little  House  says,  Stay: 
And  O,  it's  bonny  here  at  home, 
But   I   must  go  away. 

"  The  little  Road,  like  me, 
Would  seek  and  turn  and  know; 
And  forth   I   must,  to  learn  the  things 
The  little  Road  would  show! 

"  And  go  I  must,  my  dears, 
And  journey  while  I  may, 
Though  heart  be  sore  for  the  little  House 
That  had  no  word  but  Stay. 

"  Maybe,  no  other  way 
Your  child  could  ever  know 
Why  a  little  house  would  have  you  stay, 
When  a  little  Road  says,  Go." 

Although  she  travelled  much,  it  seemed  a  pity  that 
her  desire  for  new  scenes  could  not  have  been  even 
more  fully  gratified.  But  she  used  to  say  that  she  ex 
pected,  when  this  life  was  over,  to  be  permitted  to  go 
where  she  pleased  and  see  the  greatest  wonders  of 
God's  creation. 


II.     ADVERSE    INFLUENCES 

HER  mother,  when  but  thirty  years  old,  died  sud 
denly  in  the  night,  while  her  little  daughter,  only  six 


years  of  age,  was  asleep.  Young  as  Mary  was,  she 
always  had  a  vivid  remembrance  of  her.  She  dis 
tinctly  recollected  hearing  her  sing,  as  she  played  the 
piano : 

"  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  amid  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise, 
For  my  Mary's  asleep  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream." 

And  Mary  could  never  forget  how  her  mother,  as 
she  sang  the  last  two  lines  of  that  stanza,  smiling, 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

She  was  indelibly  impressed  with  the  fact  that  her 
mother  loved  her.  Others  had  difficulty  in  controlling 
the  high-spirited  child,  but  her  mother  swayed  and 
subdued  her  by  love.  "  Love  never  faileth."  When 
Mary  was  three  score  and  ten  she  wrote:  "  I  cannot 
remember  my  mother  ever  doing  anything  but  loving 
me."  She  said,  "  I  like  to  write  down  my  childish 
memories,  for  each  one  of  them  recalls  my  mother, 
who  has  always  been  so  dear  and  lovely  a  presence 
in  my  heart."  Little  incidents,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower,  suggested  her 
mother's  face.  "  Very  well,"  she  wrote,  "  do  I  remem 
ber  attending  Dudley  Street  Baptist  Church,  sitting  on 
a  hassock  and  going  to  sleep,  my  head  on  my  mother's 
lap,  while  my  new  gypsy  hat,  trimmed  with  a  wreath 
of  rosebuds,  lay  on  the  cushion  of  the  pew." 

In  the  very  last  years  of  her  life,  nearly  seventy 
years  after  her  mother's  death,  at  times  when  she 

155 


spoke  of  her,  her  voice  choked  with  emotion  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  After  her  death,  I  found  in  her 
commonplace  book,  the  following  poem  expressive  of 
her  profound  and  tender  love  of  her  mother.  The 
title  is, 

TO    MY    MOTHER   IN    HEAVEN 

And  dost  thou  think  of  me  in  heaven? 
Or  dost  thou  quite  forget? 
And  is  each  tender  heartstring  riven, 
Each  memory  faded  yet? 

Ah!  turn  and  look  on  me  from  heaven 

One  little  moment's  space, 

Turn   from   the   burning  "  spirits   seven  " 

Thy   rapt  and  wondering  face. 

One  moment  hush  thy  anthem  clear, 

A  trembling  human  voice  to  hear, 

And  from  thy  crown  of  asphodel 

Send  circling  down,  thy  love  to  tell, 

Some  leaves  of  fadeless  green 

With  blossoms  white  between. 

Ah !    many  a  year  from  green  to  white 

Has  faded  since  that  dreadful  night 

When  thou  in  death,  in  slumber  I, 

Drifted  apart,  as  streams  that  lie 

Blent  in  one  spring  among  the  hills, 

And  which  in  overflowing  spills 

One  river  where  the  sun  may  shine 

Forever  on  its  silver  line, 

Another  that  must  onward  creep 

Long  years  through  caverns  dark  and  deep, 

156 


Till  cheered  by  many  a  struggling  ray, 
At  last  it  slips  out  into  day. 

Then  forth  into  the  unknown  seas, 
My  rudder  lost,  my  compass  gone, 
So  early  I  set  sail  alone, 
T'explore  a  world  of  mysteries. 
So  early  from  my  mother's  knees 
And  her  fond  bosom,  orphaned,  went 
A  way  in  which  the  churchyard  trees 
With  early  blossoms  strangely  blent, 
While   every  joy  and   every  place, 
Brought  with   it   still  a   hidden   pain, 
Which  made  me  long  to  turn  again, 
Missing  the  sunshine  of  thy  face. 

And  yet  I  know  not  why  I  wept 
Through  all  those  far-off  childish  years ; 
'Twas  still  a  happy,  changeful  life, 
And  yet  I  welcomed  it  with  tears. 
Oh,  why,  sweet  mother,  wast  thou  gone? 
While  hour  by  hour  and  day  by  day 
Thy  faithful  heart  to  lean  upon 
Had  made  a  rose-walk  of  the  way. 

Now,  what  was  the  character  of  this  six-year-old 
child  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  left  motherless? 
First  of  all,  she  was  extremely  sensitive.  Every  nerve 
in  her  body  quivered  either  with  pain  or  pleasure. 
Any  unjust  criticism  of  her  conduct,  or  even  any  seem 
ing  slight  or  neglect  cut  her  to  the  quick. 

She  was  also  unusually  imaginative.  She  herself 
told  me  that,  in  her  early  girlhood,  all  fairies  in  fairy 
stories  were  to  her  real  persons  beyond  the  shadow  of 

157 


a  doubt.  In  a  letter  written  by  her  mother  in  1844, 
I  find  this  naive  testimony  to  the  vivid  imagination 
of  her  little  daughter,  who  was  then  only  four  years 
old:  "  She  talks  to  her  dolls  as  if  they  were  real  babies 
and  is  quite  grieved  if  I  talk  about  sticking  a  pin  into 
them,  fearing  that  it  would  hurt  them.  She  is  a  little, 
wild  creature,  and  if  she  gets  into  the  country  this 
summer  will,  I  doubt  not,  commence  climbing  fences 
in  fine  style.  You  would  be  amused  to  hear  her  talk, 
as  she  '  suspects,'  '  concludes,'  etc.,  equal  to  any 
grown  person." 

She  was  not  only  excessively  sensitive  and  imagi 
native,  but  also  high-spirited  and  quick-tempered.  She 
was  very  apt,  especially  when  she  thought  some  one 
did  her  wrong,  to  fly  into  a  towering  passion.  Of  this 
she  has  herself  borne  witness. 

Writing  to  one  of  her  granddaughters,  who  was 
then  eight  years  old,  and  seeking  to  persuade  her  to 
follow  "  our  dear  Lord  Jesus,"  she  said,  "  when  I  was 
a  little  girl  I  had  a  very  naughty  temper  and  I  some 
times  got  very  angry  about  very  little  things.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  did  not  always  try  to  help  screaming 
and  stamping  my  foot  about  things  that  did  not  please 
me.  But  when  I  gave  myself  to  my  Saviour,  I  knew 
that  this  angry  temper  was  His  enemy  and  I 
promised  Him  that  I  would  never  give  way  to  it  again. 
One  day  I  forgot,  and  oh,  how  sorry  and  ashamed  I 
was.  I  told  the  Lord  Jesus  that  I  could  not  make 
myself  patient  and  that  He  would  have  to  do  it.  I 
have  been  very  naughty  sometimes  since,  but  I  have 

158 


never  wanted  to  get  angry  in  that  way  again.  The 
Lord  is  stronger  than  our  sins." 

She  has  also  borne  witness  to  another  instance 
of  her  hot  temper.  She  wrote:  "  October  sixth,  1845, 
was  born  Frederick  Lincoln  Roberts,  the  dear  little 
brother.  Of  course  I  wanted  to  see  him  .  .  .  but  that 
was  not  permitted.  Every  day  I  watched  my  chance, 
and  at  last  I  saw  the  nurse  come  out  of  my  mother's 
room  with  her  hands  full  of  dishes.  I  slipped  off  my 
ankle-tie  slippers  and  crept  very  silently  into  the  room, 
through  a  little  crack,  for  the  door  was  not  shut  quite 
close.  It  was  so  dark  that  I  stood  still,  hardly  breath 
ing  for  a  minute  or  two,  before  I  could  see  anything 
distinctly.  Over  by  the  crib  stood  a  chair,  on  which 
I  silently  mounted,  turned  down  the  clothes  that  were 
about  his  face  and  looked  entranced  at  the  baby. 
I  fell  in  love  with  him  that  moment.  He  seemed  to 
me  the  dearest,  sweetest  creature  I  had  ever  seen. 
Suddenly  I  was  picked  up  in  no  very  gentle  manner 
and  set  out  into  the  hall  and  the  door  closed  against 
me.  I  lay  down  on  the  floor,  screamed  at  the  top  of 
my  voice  and  called  my  mother  to  come  and  help  me. 
After  a  minute  or  two,  the  same  cross-faced  woman, 
who  had  put  me  out,  appeared  and  said,  '  You 
naughty  girl,  you  have  waked  your  mother  and  the 
baby,  go  away.'  But  I  would  not  go.  I  heard  a  faint 
voice  say,  '  Oh,  let  her  come  in,'  and  in  a  rush  of 
victory  and  joy  I  found  myself  snuggled  up  beside  my 
dear  mama,  too  happy  almost  to  speak." 

Some  whose  duty  it  was  to  care  for  her,  utterly 

159 


misapprehending  her  disposition  and  character,  by 
their  censures  and  chastisements  augmented,  instead 
of  overcoming  her  fault.  What  she  needed,  while 
being  firmly  dealt  with,  was  intelligent  but  tender 
sympathy.  She  freely  gave  love  and  deeply  craved  it. 
Her  mother  understood  her  and  through  love  easily 
and  perfectly  controlled  her. 

When  she  was  about  five  years  old  there  came  into 
her  life  a  most  baleful  influence.  She  was  put  under 
the  care  of  an  English  nurse,  named  Ann  Woolley, 
who  was  a  good  servant  when  under  the  eye  and 
immediate  direction  of  her  mistress,  but,  when  left 
alone,  being  ignorant  and  superstitious,  was  utterly 
unfit  to  take  in  hand  the  training  of  bright,  quick 
witted  children.  She  at  once  took  a  fancy  to  the 
youngest  of  them,  little  Freddie,  but  conceived  a  deep 
dislike  to  Mary  and  her  older  brother,  and  undertook 
to  rule  them  by  fear.  She  frequently  told  them  that 
they  were  born  to  be  hung.  Thoroughly  believing 
all  the  superstitious  tales  of  the  lower  classes  of 
England,  she  told  some  of  them  over  and  over  again 
in  order  to  terrify  into  obedience  the  lively,  roguish 
youngsters  temporarily  committed  to  her  care.  Some 
of  these  gruesome  stories  are  too  horrible  to  repeat, 
but  among  the  milder  of  them  was  this,  in  Mary's 
own  words:  "  She  told  every  day  about  a  wicked  boy, 
who  did  not  mind  his  nurse  and  was  haunted  by  Satan 
in  the  shape  of  a  black  cat,  invisible  to  all  others, 
which,  when  he  was  dying,  leaped  upon  his  chest  and 
inhaled  his  soul  in  his  latest  breath.  No  words  can 

160 


tell  my  horror  and  dread  of  that  cat."  In  the  vigor 
of  her  mature  womanhood  she  always  shrank  with  a 
shiver  from  the  fiery  eyes  of  a  black  cat. 

This  foolish  nurse  one  day  took  little  Mary  up 
upon  her  knee  and  gravely  said  to  her,  "If  you  keep 
on  being  such  a  naughty  child,  you  will  grow  smaller 
and  smaller  until  at  last  you  will  slip  into  a  hole  in 
the  ground  and  go  and  serve  the  fairies." 

Now,  as  we  have  already  seen,  this  imaginative  child 
believed  fairies  to  be  real  beings  and  this  prophetic 
threat  filled  her  with  alarm.  Then  in  an  unexpected 
way  the  ominous  words  of  her  nurse  seemingly  began 
to  be  fulfilled.  Her  father  came  into  the  nursery  and 
ascertained  the  comparative  stature  of  his  children 
by  standing  them  against  the  door  and  making  a  mark 
to  show  the  height  of  each,  and  said,  "  I  will  measure 
you  each  month  to  see  who  grows  the  fastest."  He 
of  course  knew  nothing  of  what  the  nurse  had  said 
to  his  little  daughter.  But  whenever  Ann  accused  her 
of  being  bad,  Mary  measured  herself  by  putting  a 
book  on  her  head,  holding  the  end  of  it  firmly  against 
the  door  and  slipping  from  under  it.  If  the  book  was 
at  her  mark  on  the  door  she  was  happy.  But  one 
morning  she  thoughtlessly  measured  herself  before 
she  put  on  her  shoes,  and  finding  the  end  of  the  book 
below  her  mark,  believed  that  she  was  growing  shorter 
and  her  heart  sank  in  despair. 

The  nurse  also  enforced  her  commands  by  punish 
ment.  At  times  she  shut  up  the  two  older  children 
in  a  dark  closet,  saying  to  them,  "  If  you  make  a 

161 


noise  the  rats  will  bite  your  toes."  Mary  said,  "  How 
many  hours  have  I  spent  in  that  closet,  hopping  from 
one  foot  to  the  other  in  order  to  discourage  the  rats." 

Why  was  this  permitted?  The  mother  was  dead, 
and  the  busy  father  was  much  of  the  time  away  from 
home,  often  in  England,  and  Mary's  aunt,  with  whom 
for  a  season  she  lived,  burdened  with  a  thousand  cares, 
so  long  as  her  little  niece  was  well,  which  was  most 
of  the  time,  left  the  motherless  child,  shy  and  hot-tem 
pered,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  that  dreaded  nurse, 
who  tried  to  rule  her  by  threatening  her  with  hobgob 
lins.  She  was  too  high-spirited  not  to  rebel  at  times. 
She  said,  "  I  remember  distinctly  standing  with  my 
back  to  a  lamp-post,  angry  and  determined,  and  hav 
ing  a  passing  old  gentleman  advise  me  to  be  good 
and  mind  my  mother.  'My  mother!'  I  called  after 
him;  '  this  is  my  nurse.' '; 

She  often  planned  to  tell  her  father,  when  he  came 
home,  of  Ann's  stories  and  threats,  but  she  herself 
so  devoutly  believed  in  fairies,  spooks  and  goblins 
dire  that  in  downright  terror  of  Ann  her  heart  failed 
her,  so  the  abuse  went  on  unchecked. 

But  Mary  was  called  to  battle  with  another  adverse 
influence.  In  the  spring  of  1852  her  father  married 
Miss  Marianne  Synear.  She  was  about  thirty  years 
old,  an  orphan  with  sufficient  money  to  have  lived 
comfortably  single.  Her  parents  were  English.  She 
was  an  only  child.  She  never  had  had  any  experience 
that  fitted  her  to  care  for  children.  She  had  however 
considerable  culture  and  refinement,  having  taken  in 

162 


New  York  City  a  course  of  training  in  what  was  then 
called  a  finishing  school.  She  had  also  the  discipline, 
practical  and  moral,  that  came  from  caring  for  her 
widowed  mother  during  a  long  and  painful  illness. 
Take  her  all  in  all,  she  was  a  woman  of  a  fairly 
forceful  character ;  but  she  was  afflicted  with  deafness, 
and  in  disposition  was  somewhat  jealous.  If  the 
children  of  the  household  conversed  with  each  other 
and  she  failed  to  hear  what  they  were  saying,  she 
surmised  that  they  were  talking  about  her.  In 
groundless  resentment  she  often  spoke  bitterly  to 
them,  sharply  reproving  them  for  what  they  had 
neither  said  nor  done.  If  Mary's  father  even  kissed 
her  good  night  it  awoke  the  demon  of  jealousy  in  her 
stepmother.  The  whole  family  lived  oppressed  under 
a  cloud  of  suspicion.  Mary,  fond  of  reading  and 
study,  at  one  time  rose  at  an  early  hour  that  she 
might  undisturbed  read  her  Vergil.  When  her  step 
mother  discovered  this,  she  put  the  breakfast  an  hour 
earlier  so  as  to  deprive  Mary  of  this  privilege.  The 
older  son,  a  bright,  playfully  mischievous  boy,  who 
sometimes  reprehensibly  enjoyed  annoying  his  sus 
picious  stepmother,  before  he  was  ten  years  old  was 
temporarily  driven  from  his  home;  his  father,  to  save 
the  peace  of  the  household,  putting  him  into  a  private 
school  in  Newport,  R.  I.,  while  he,  with  all  the  rest  of 
the  family,  went  to  England.  But  the  sensitive,  sus 
ceptible  Mary,  often  quivering  with  pain  under 
groundless  suspicion  and  false  accusation,  lived  on, 
bearing  with  heroism  her  bitter  burden,  but  often 

163 


finding  some  relief  in  tears  during  the  silent  watches 
of  the  night. 

She  was  not  of  course  utterly  desolate.  When  her 
father,  away  much  of  the  time  on  business,  came 
home,  he  always  brought  sunshine  and  cheer  into  the 
household.  Moreover  she  had  many  resources  of 
happiness  in  herself.  Her  ear  was  ever  attent  to  the 
rapturous  voices  of  nature  that  cheered  her  and  for 
considerable  periods  drove  sadness  from  her  heart. 
And  above  all  she  found  in  her  younger  brother,  whom 
she  ardently  loved,  a  well-spring  of  contentment  and 
joy.  But  so  deep  were  the  wounds  in  her  heart, 
unwittingly  made  by  her  jealous  stepmother,  that  it 
took  a  long  time  to  heal  them.  For  at  least  ten  years 
after  her  marriage,  if  she  did  anything  that  she  thought 
might  be  questioned,  she  would  at  once  begin  an 
earnest  defense  of  it.  When  kindly  assured  that  no 
one  for  a  moment  doubted  the  propriety  of  what  she 
had  done,  she  would  reply,  "  I  was  so  long  found  fault 
with  for  whatever  I  did,  to  defend  myself  has  become 
a  second  nature."  How  easy  it  is  thoughtlessly  to 
wound  a  sensitive  soul,  but  how  difficult  it  is  to 
obliterate  the  mischief  done! 


III.     MULTIPLICITY    OF    HOMES 

A  PERMANENT  home  has  unquestionably  marked 
advantages  and  on  the  whole  may  be  most  desirable; 
but  a  multiplicity  of  residences  has  also  its  beneficent 

164 


educational  influences.  It  refreshes  the  soul  with 
variety  of  scene,  stimulates  thinking  by  suggesting 
new  ideas,  keeps  the  mind  out  of  ruts,  and  enlarges 
our  knowledge  of  men  and  of  society.  At  all  events 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  enjoyed  to  the  full  what 
ever  advantages  may  be  justly  claimed  for  it. 

We  have  already  incidentally  noted  her  places  of 
temporary  abode  in  England  and  the  beautiful,  his 
toric  scenes  which  in  her  early  life  were  there  woven 
forever  into  her  thoughts  and  became  a  priceless  pos 
session.  But  here  also  in  her  own  country  her  life 
was  quite  freed  from  monotony  by  her  ever-changing 
environment. 

She  first  opened  her  eyes  in  Roxbury,  Massachu 
setts,  where  she  also  spent  a  part  of  her  childhood, 
and  clearly  remembered  the  scenes  that  then  deeply 
impressed  her.  She  always  carried  in  her  mind  a 
picture  of  the  place  where  she  resided.  The  house 
was  called  a  cottage,  but  it  had  several  good  sized 
rooms.  It  stood  in  a  large  garden,  full  of  fruit  and 
enclosed  by  a  high  stonewall.  "  There  were  rows  of 
currant  and  raspberry  bushes,  and  apricots  were 
trained  upon  the  walls  of  the  stable  "  in  which  she 
played  with  her  older  brother  and  her  cousin,  Agnes 
Mcjannett.  She  recollected  that  she  slept  in  a 
mahogany  crib  and  ate  her  meals  under  the  charge 
of  a  nurse,  named  Caroline;  that  her  father,  returning 
from  England,  brought  her  "  a  doll  as  tall  as  herself, 
with  beautiful  wax  head,  hands  and  feet,  long  brown 
curls  and  a  wire  that  being  pulled  opened  and  shut 

165 


its  eyes;"  and  that  she  and  her  cousin  greatly  pre 
ferred  their  rag  dolls  with  cheeks  painted  red.  She 
distinctly  remembered  the  long  parlor  where  her 
father  sat  Sunday  afternoons,  reading  the  Baptist 
weekly  newspaper,  and  the  "  fans  made  of  peacock 
feathers,  hanging  on  each  side  of  the  empty  fireplace, 
where  the  bright  andirons  were  crossed  in  summer 
inactivity." 

Such  was  one  of  the  homes  of  her  early  life,  where 
her  every  want  was  met  and  satisfied,  a  home  filled 
with,  and  surrounded  by,  beautiful  objects  that  min 
istered  to  the  taste,  and  above  all  irradiated  by  her 
father's  and  mother's  love.  Young  as  she  was,  only 
five  years  old,  its  gracious  influence  followed  her  to 
the  end  of  her  days. 

When  she  was  brought  home  from  her  second  visit 
to  England,  her  father,  who  had  preceded  his  family, 
welcomed  them  to  a  house,  that  he  had  hired  and  into 
which  he  had  moved  all  their  furniture,  on  Harrison 
Street,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  Although  a  mere  child,  she 
remembered  how  delighted  she  was  with  her  new  mug 
and  her  pretty  crib,  and  how  elated  she  was  because, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  put  into  a  room 
by  herself,  in  the  second  story,  above  the  front  door 
and  next  to  the  room  occupied  by  her  parents.  It 
was  here  that  that  dreadful  calamity  suddenly  over 
took  her,  the  death  of  her  adored  mother.  Her  bitter 
affliction  was  somewhat  mitigated  by  the  presence 
in  the  household  of  her  Aunt  Sarah  Freeman,  her 
mother's  sister.  She  was  about  two  years  younger 

166 


than  her  mother,  and  was  "  very  sweet  and  kind." 
Her  father  also  made  much  of  his  little  daughter, 
taking  her  crib  into  his  own  room.  This  house,  which 
at  first  was  to  Mary  radiant  with  joy,  was  in  a  night 
transformed  into  a  place  of  unutterable  sadness  and 
gloom.  Ever  after  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  valley 
and  shadow  of  death. 

Anxious  to  get  away  from  the  sad  associations  of 
the  place  where  the  wife  of  his  early  manhood,  the 
idol  of  his  heart,  had  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
passed  away,  in  the  spring  of  1847,  Mr.  Roberts 
took  his  family  to  Mamaroneck,  Westchester  County, 
N.  Y.,  on  Long  Island  Sound,  to  spend  the  summer. 
Mary's  remembrance  of  this  temporary  home  are 
altogether  pleasant.  The  celebration  of  the  Fourth 
of  July,  when  early  in  the  morning,  some  one  exploded 
firecrackers  in  a  barrel  under  her  window,  the  great 
Newfoundland  dog,  the  excursions  in  sailboats  on 
Long  Island  Sound,  the  overturning  of  their  boat 
once  as  they  were  coming  up  to  the  wharf  so  that  all 
aboard  got  a  fright  and  a  wetting,  but  gained  the 
landing  without  personal  injury,  during  all  her  after 
life  never  faded  from  her  memory. 

In  the  autumn  she  was  brought  back  to  Brooklyn 
and  the  family  lived  on  Sidney  Place,  in  the  house 
of  her  Aunt  Elizabeth,  her  father's  sister,  who  was 
the  mother  of  Agnes  Mcjannett,  one  of  her  favorite 
cousins.  She  and  Agnes  were  about  the  same  age 
and  very  fond  of  each  other.  They  had  the  freedom 
of  the  house.  To  their  unbounded  delight  they  con- 

167 


stantly  played  and  romped  together,  attended  the 
same  school  and  received  the  loving  care  of  Mary's 
Aunt  Sarah  Freeman. 

A  year  passed  by  when,  in  September,  1848,  her 
father  made  her  Aunt  Sarah  his  wife.  The  testimony 
is  abundant  that  she  was  a  lovely  woman  both  in  face 
and  character.  For  several  years  she  had  been  a 
member  of  the  family  and  the  children  were  warmly 
attached  to  her.  They  could  not  love  her  any  more 
than  they  had  before,  but,  after  her  marriage,  they 
called  her  Aunt  Sarah  Mama.  But  she  was  frail  in 
body,  having  inherited  from  her  father  a  tendency  to 
consumption. 

On  account  of  her  delicate  health,  wishing  to  remove 
her  from  the  too  exhilarating  air  of  the  ocean,  Mr. 
Roberts,  early  in  the  summer  of  1849,  removed  to 
Sing  Sing.  He  took  his  family  into  a  spacious  board 
ing-house.  It  was  a  cool  place  with  a  large  garden 
and  overlooked  the  State  Prison.  Here  Mary  attended 
a  public  school.  Here  too  she  had  her  first  sickness, 
suffering  from  measles.  This,  she  said,  was  the  first 
time  that  she  ever  remembered  to  have  had  an  ache 
or  a  pain.  She  recollected  the  excitement  in  the  board 
ing-house,  when  the  prison  guards  tracked  across  the 
flower  beds,  in  the  garden,  some  fugitive  prisoners  that 
were  attempting  to  escape  from  "  durance  vile,"  and 
she  also  distinctly  remembered  the  startling  news 
circulated  among  the  school  children,  as  though  it  were 
a  dreadful  calamity,  that  one  of  the  little  girls  in  the 
school  had  a  stepmother.  She  said,  "  I  had  one 

1 68 


myself,  but  I  never  realized  it."  She  did  however 
learn  later  that  there  is  a  vast  difference  between 
stepmothers. 

Late  in  the  season  her  gentle,  loving  stepmother 
passed  away.  On  her  death-bed  she  assured  her  sor 
rowing  husband  that  the  year  just  ending  had  been 
the  happiest  of  her  life  and  "  whispering  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm  she  went  home." 

In  1850,  when  Mary  was  ten  years  old,  her  father, 
expecting  to  be  away  from  home,  took  his  children 
and  their  nurse,  Ann,  to  Newton  Centre,  Massachu 
setts,  and  established  them  in  a  boarding-house,  near 
the  home  of  her  Aunt  Mary  Colby,  that,  in  a  general 
way,  they  might  be  under  her  supervision  and  care. 
Here  in  pleasant  surroundings,  under  the  loving 
watch-care  of  her  favorite  aunt,  and  playing  and 
frolicking  with  her  cousins,  Charles  and  Henry  Colby, 
she  spent  a  happy  summer.  The  wall  in  front  of  the 
Colby  estate  was  then  being  built  and  out  of  the 
slabs  of  slate  the  children  constructed  mimic  wigwams 
and  played  Indian.  The  joyful  experiences  of  that 
summer  were  golden  threads  woven  into  the  warp  of 
her  life. 

Soon  after  the  advent  of  the  deaf  and  jealous  step 
mother  by  her  father's  third  marriage,  the  family 
lived  for  a  year  at  Flushing,  Long  Island.  Their 
house,  fairly  large  and  painted  white,  was  pleasant 
and  attractive.  Behind  it  was  a  large  garden,  plenti 
fully  stocked  with  small  fruits.  There  was  also  an 
apple  orchard  and  a  pasture.  On  either  side  of  the 

169 


drive  from  the  highway  to  the  barn  was  a  row  of  fine 
old  cherry-trees,  starred  over  with  blossoms  in  the 
spring  and  red  with  fruit  in  the  summer.  There  too 
the  birds  nested  and  sang  and  feasted.  In  the  barn 
was  a  bran-new  brougham  and  in  the  stable  were  fine 
carriage-horses.  The  children  enjoyed  many  pleasant 
drives  over  the  country  roads.  In  the  house  and  about 
the  place  there  were  a  plenty  of  servants.  Though 
the  stay  at  Flushing  was  short,  the  family  enjoyed 
there  freedom,  ease  and  beauty,  and  the  susceptible 
Mary  absorbed  all  that  ministered  to  her  esthetic 
taste. 

Her  father,  still  engaged  in  business  in  New  York, 
left  Flushing  early  each  week-day  morning,  and,  on 
his  return  in  the  evening,  his  daughter  seldom  missed 
greeting  him  with  a  fervid  kiss.  He  reciprocated  her 
love  with  all  the  warmth  of  his  great  heart.  His 
tender  affection  was  for  the  time  being  a  fairly  effec 
tual  foil  to  the  suspicion  of  her  stepmother.  The 
happy  days  that  she  spent  at  Flushing  always  lingered 
like  sunshine  in  her  heart. 

Nevertheless  in  the  house  at  times  things  were  not 
lovely.  Mary  said  that  her  new  "  Mama  had  never 
been  taught  housekeeping  and  had  to  depend  largely 
on  servants.  Finally  she  added  a  housekeeper  to  the 
lot  and  had  to  turn  everybody  away  on  account  of 
quarrels.  The  coachman  threatened  to  stab  the 
housekeeper  because  she  ordered  his  wife,  the  cook, 
about.  So  I  learned  by  watching  the  tribulations  of 
my  elders,  how  not  to  do  it." 

170 


Her  next  home,  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  was  just 
outside  the  village  of  Tariffville,  Connecticut.  The 
family,  returning  from  England  in  1854,  thought  it 
unwise  to  spend  the  summer  at  their  old  residence  in 
Brooklyn.  Mary's  Uncle  Charles  Roberts,  after  the 
great  business  panic  of  1837,  when  the  dry-goods 
house  of  Roberts  Brothers  failed,  went  to  Tariffville, 
where  he  still  owned  a  factory  of  Marseilles  quilts,  and 
for  some  years  superintended  it.  At  last  this  also 
closed  its  doors.  He  then  bought  a  farm  about  a  mile 
beyond  the  village,  where  he  lived  in  quietude  and 
comfort  to  the  end  of  his  days.  He  was  a  large- 
hearted,  generous  soul,  and  he  now  welcomed  under 
his  hospitable  roof  his  brother's  family  on  their  return 
from  Europe.  They,  however,  soon  rented  a  vacant 
cottage,  standing  in  the  woods,  not  far  from  his  house, 
and  continued  to  live  there  for  three  or  four  years. 
This  solitary  residence,  surrounded  by  forests,  entered 
so  largely  into  the  life  and  character  of  Mary,  that 
she  shall  herself  describe  it.  "  We  set  up  housekeep 
ing  again  in  this  secluded  place.  A  wagon  road  lead 
ing  up  to  the  cottage  wound  for  a  long  way  through 
a  beautiful  wood;  but  back  of  the  house  there  was 
a  clearing  across  which  a  foot-path  ran.  Before  the 
house  was  a  garden,  and  beyond  the  garden  a  fringe 
of  pine-trees  on  the  brow  of  a  little  elevation,  that 
overlooked  a  wide  landscape.  The  forest  itself  was 
principally  of  pine  and  hemlock  and  so  lonely  that  if 
we  (i.  e.  we  children)  heard  any  one  approaching,  we 
turned  out  of  the  path  and  hid  in  the  thicket.  But 

171 


on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  near  the  house,  there  was  a 
growth  of  the  Kalmia  or  mountain  laurel,  that,  in  its 
blooming  time,  was  a  glory  of  white  and  pink  flowers, 
sculptured  like  shells.  Below  these  again  grew  all 
kinds  of  violets,  but  chiefly  the  large  bird's  foot 
variety.  The  soil  was  very  sandy  and  nothing  grew 
very  well  in  the  garden,  but  we  tried  hard  to  make  it 
yield  all  sorts  of  things.  Not  far  away  in  the  meadow 
was  a  brook  that  we  crossed  on  our  way  to  Uncle 
Charles'  house.  It  was  quite  hidden  by  trees,  as  was 
our  whole  outside  world.  This  brook  was  our  delight 
and  our  playfellow.  There  the  little  boys  fished  and 
bathed,  and  there  Ned  "  (her  older  brother)  "  set  up 
his  water-wheels  and  other  contrivances. 

"  Through  the  summer  we  were  very  happy  here. 
A  Mr.  Bowles,  pastor  of  the  church  in  Tariffville, 
came  over  afternoons  and  was  supposed  to  tutor  us 
in  Latin  and  other  things.  I  remember  that  we 
learned  the  first  declension  by  his  naming  the  different 
trees  penna,  pennae,  etc.,  as  he  taught  us,  reclining 
upon  sweet  pine  needles,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  We 
liked  him  very  much,  for  he  was  not  at  all  strenuous. 
And  while  we  did  not  learn  a  great  deal,  we  thrived 
on  the  sweet  summer  air,  and  absorbed  the  beauty  of 
the  wood. 

"  When  the  two  little  watermelons  that  we  had  raised 
with  difficulty  in  our  barren  garden  patch  were  ripe, 
we  showed  them  to  Mr.  Bowles  and  offered  him  the 
choice  of  our  treasures.  We  were  quite  overcome 
when  he  said  that  he  would  take  both  and  went  home 

172 


with  one  under  each  arm.  I  have  always  been  sorry 
that  he  did  this.  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  done  it  had 
he  known  that  we  would  remember  it  for  fifty  years 
and  more." 

So  the  beauty  of  the  forest  and  flowers,  the  crystal 
brook  singing  on  its  winding  way  through  the  meadow, 
the  Sittings  and  the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  sandy 
garden  grudgingly  responding  to  their  toil  were  the 
teachers  of  these  happy  children,  roaming  with  free 
dom  in  the  fields.  They  there  found  "  tongues  in 
trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in  stones, 
and  good  in  every  thing." 

Of  parental  care  they  had  but  little.  Their  father 
came  home  only 'on  Saturday  nights;  but,  to  the  joy 
of  their  hearts,  he  spent  Sundays  with  them.  But 
the  stepmother  could  never  understand  these  wide 
awake,  bustling  children,  who  by  marriage  had  become 
her  care.  Nothing  that  the  two  older  ones  did  ever 
seemed  to  please  her.  The  older  son  by  degrees  grew 
callous  to  her  censures  and  at  times  even  received  them 
with  merriment,  which  naturally  could  not  fail  to 
enrage  her.  Of  course  neither  stepmother  nor  stepson 
was  wholly  right.  But  least  of  all  could  she  penetrate 
the  character  of  her  stepdaughter,  barely  fourteen 
years  old,  who  preferred  to  dish-washing,  sweeping 
and  dusting,  romping  in  the  fields  and  woods,  or 
reading  any  book  on  which  she  could  lay  her  hands. 

In  reviewing  Mary's  life  up  to  this  time,  we  find 
that  before  she  was  fourteen  years  old,  she  had  had, 
including  her  places  of  residence  in  England,  thirteen 

173 


different  homes.  '  Variety  in  scene  and  society  had 
been  superabundant.  Her  study  of  geography  was 
not  wholly  theoretical  but  largely  experimental;  not 
simply  by  map  but  by  sight  and  touch. 


IV.     SCHOOLS    ATTENDED 

To  get  any  adequate  understanding  of  the  influ 
ences  by  which  Mary's  character  was  moulded,  we 
must  not  only  take  into  account  her  varied  places  of 
abode,  but  also  the  schools  that  she  attended,  some 
of  which  were  also  her  temporary  homes. 

Her  parents,  with  a  single  exception,  sent  her  to 
private  or  select  schools.  The  first  was  at  Roxbury, 
kept  by  a  teacher  who  then  seemed  to  her  to  be  very 
old,  but  was  perhaps  not  more  than  twenty-five.  The 
large  school-room  was  divided  into  two  parts  by  a 
green  baize  curtain.  She  said  "  the  big  children  were 
on  one  side,  the  little  tots  on  the  other.  I  learned  to 
spell  and  read.  Afterwards  I  studied  Peter  Parley's 
Geography  and  a  little  arithmetic  on  the  abacus  that 
hung  on  the  wall,  learning  to  add  and  subtract  by 
counting  its  bright  balls.  I  was  taught  also  to  sew 
a  little  patchwork  and  made  a  bedquilt  for  my  doll." 
This  was  the  beginning  of  her  education  in  letters, 
science  and  practical  life.  Before  she  was  six  years 
old,  she  could  read  with  ease.  On  her  sixth  birthday 
a  Bible  was  given  her  because  she  could  read  and 
pronounce  correctly  most  of  the  hard  words  in  it. 

174 


She  said:  "  As  I,  like  most  children,  woke  early  in  the 
morning  and  understood  that  I  must  not  disturb 
father's  sleep,  I  became  very  fond  of  reading  my  Bible 
in  bed.  My  favorite  books  were  Ezekiel  and  the 
Revelation,  not  that  I  understood  what  they  meant, 
for  I  read  them  as  I  might  have  read  fairy  tales. 
What  I  enjoyed  was  the  imagery  and  sweep  of  the 
language.  Then,  too,  since  my  mother  had  gone  to 
heaven,  I  liked  to  read  something  about  the  place 
where  she  was." 

Wherever  the  family  sojourned  for  a  time  she  was 
either  tutored  at  home  or  sent  to  some  school  in  the 
neighborhood.  In  1847  sne  was  among  the  juveniles 
of  Packer  Institute,  Brooklyn;  in  1848  in  a  district 
school  at  Sing  Sing.  We  have  however  no  record  of 
what  she  learned  in  these  transient  spells  of  schooling. 
But  a  mind  so  alert  and  receptive  could  not  have 
failed  to  add  much  to  its  accumulating  stores  of 
knowledge. 

There  was,  however,  one  school  that  she  attended, 
which  deserves  special  consideration  on  account  of  its 
influence  upon  her  whole  subsequent  career.  She 
spent,  as  we  have  already  seen,  the  summer  of  1850 
at  Newton  Centre,  under  the  wise  and  tender  oversight 
of  her  Aunt  Mary  Colby,  who,  noting  the  baleful  in 
fluence  of  her  nurse  upon  her  mind  and  heart,  in  the 
autumn  persuaded  her  father  to  send  her  to  the 
school  of  the  Misses  Anable,  in  Philadelphia.  There 
were  four  of  them,  Miss  Anna  Maria,  Miss  Hattie, 
Miss  Fanny,  and  Miss  Mary.  With  them  lived  their 

175 


mother,  their  maiden  aunt,  Miss  Cynthia  Sheldon,  and 
their  young  brother,  then  studying  law,  but  who  after 
wards  was  Dr.  Courtland  Anable  of  the  Baptist  minis 
try.  I  name  them  all  because  each  became  a  force  in 
forming  the  character  of  the  timid  child  of  ten  now 
committed  to  their  care.  Their  school,  among  the 
many  schools  for  girls  then  scattered  over  the  country, 
was  noted  for  its  excellence.  Among  its  pupils  were 
the  daughters  of  distinguished  missionaries.  Abbie 
Ann  Judson,  Nellie  Bennett  and  Rosa  Gate  were  there, 
also  a  daughter  of  Samuel  F.  Smith,  the  author  of 
our  national  hymn.  Mary  was  the  youngest  of  the 
group.  Motherless  herself,  a  motherless  girl  only  a 
little  older  than  she,  Helen  Sappington  of  Havre  de 
Grace,  Maryland,  whose  black  mourning  dress  con 
trasted  with  her  fair  skin  and  golden  hair,  became  her 
chief  friend.  On  the  fourth  floor  of  the  house 
occupied  by  the  Anable  family  and  their  school,  311 
Walnut  Street,  "  there  was,"  Mary  said,  "  a  hall,  in 
which,  behind  the  balustrades  of  the  staircase,  and 
hidden  by  two  large  wardrobes  from  the  bedroom 
doors,  was  a  big  old  lounge,  lighted  at  one  end  by  a 
window.  How  many  happy  hours  have  I  spent  with 
Nellie  in  that  safe  retreat!  Perched  there  we  played 
and  read,  read  the  Bible  through  several  times,  just 
to  see  which  could  do  it  the  quickest."  Such  is  one 
of  the  pictures  that  she  drew  of  herself  and  her  boon 
companion  in  that  select  school. 

She  thought  that  Miss  Hattie  Anable  looked  like 
her  adored  Aunt  Sarah  Mama  and  she  at  once  loved 

1/6 


her  with  all  her  heart.  Miss  Hattie  became  her  spe 
cial  guardian,  tenderly  caring  for  her  so  long  as 
she  remained  in  the  school.  She  learned  that  the 
special  love  of  one  is  better  than  the  general  love  of 
four. 

When  she  first  entered  the  Philadelphia  school,  she 
occupied,  with  six  or  seven  other  girls,  a  large  third- 
story  front  room  stretching  across  the  whole  width  of 
the  house.  Besides  the  necessary  furniture,  there  was 
a  large  bookcase,  filled  with  books  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects.  She  says,  "  It  was  not  long  before  I  lighted 
on  this  treasure."  In  fact  she  became  so  absorbed  in 
reading  that  she  quite  neglected  her  studies  and  her 
practising  on  the  piano.  To  correct  this  fault  she 
was  required  to  practise  evenings  in  the  hall,  so  that 
her  teacher,  sitting  below  in  the  parlor,  could  know 
that  she  was  attending  to  business.  The  older  girls, 
bent  on  fun,  dressed  themselves  up  in  sheets,  poured 
cologne  into  their  soap  dishes,  and  setting  it  afire, 
came  in  single  file,  blew  out  her  candle,  danced  around 
her,  the  pale  flames  of  the  cologne  giving  them  a 
ghostly  appearance,  in  order  to  see  how  frightened 
she  would  be;  they  knowing  that  she  would  neither 
dare  to  scream  nor  to  stop  playing  for  fear  of  Miss 
Fanny,  who  was  a  strict  disciplinarian.  This  gives 
us  another  peep  into  both  the  discipline  and  fun  of 
this  once  famous  girls'  school. 

After  a  time  Mary  was  at  night  separated  from  the 
other  girls  and  put  into  Miss  Cynthia's  room,  to 
sleep,  so  that  this  venerable  spinster  might  superin- 

177 


tend  her  toilet  operations.  She  was  not  only  the 
youngest  girl  in  the  school  but  was  very  small  for  her 
age.  Her  nurse  at  home,  always  having  regarded  her 
as  a  little  child,  had  never  taught  her  to  put  on  her 
own  clothes,  had  even  brushed  her  teeth  for  her,  and 
she  needed  some  one  to  teach  her  how  to  care  for 
herself,  and  none  could  render  this  necessary  service 
better  than  Miss  Cynthia,  who  also  undertook  with 
her  nostrums  to  minister  to  her,  when  she  was  over 
taken  with  any  slight  ailment.  She  was  subject  to 
severe  nervous  headaches.  "  When  these  showed 
themselves,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Cynthia  doctored  me 
with  all  sorts  of  vile  medicine.  I  remember  particu 
larly  the  cayenne  pepper  she  used  to  make  me  take 
in  a  wine-glass  of  water." 

Still  she  was  generally  happy  under  her  kind  and 
aged  caretaker.  Opposite  their  room  was  a  closet 
under  the  stairs,  where  sometimes  she  hid  with  books, 
which  she  had  taken  from  the  library  and  read  them 
lying  on  the  floor,  propping  her  head  on  her  hands. 
She  said,  "  Shelley  I  liked  best,  though  of  course  1 
did  not  understand  him.  I  also  read  Keats,  Jane 
Eyre,  Shakespeare  and  all  the  rest."  When  her  head 
ached  severely  she  was  excused  from  her  classes.  So 
she  declares,  "  I  became  so  entranced  with  Lalla 
Rookh,  that  in  order  to  cut  school  and  finish  it,  I 
banged  my  head  against  the  door  till  I  could  truth 
fully  say  I  had  a  headache."  At  that  time  she  had 
but  a  slight  appreciation  of  the  perversity  of  such 
conduct.  The  sharp  conviction  of  that  came  later. 

178 


But  she  goes  on  to  say,  "  In  the  meantime  Miss  Hattie 
allowed  me  to  read  Plutarch's  Lives  and  Sparks' 
United  States  History,  which  doubtless  served  as  a 
balance.  I  remember  very  well  sitting  on  a  cricket 
in  her  room  and  swallowing  whole  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin."  And  she  was  not  yet  quite  twelve  years  old. 
Surely  this  thirst  for  reading  the  best  English  litera 
ture  was  somewhat  extraordinary  in  a  girl  of  that  age, 
who  had  never  had  any  permanent  home,  nor  any 
persistent  intellectual  drill  and  for  a  large  part  of  her 
life  had  been  under  the  care  of  an  ignorant,  supersti 
tious  nurse. 

Moreover,  she  says  that  her  father  did  all  he  could 
to  spoil  her.  He  bought  her  everything  she  asked  for, 
and  she  was  very  proud  of  her  bronze  boots  and  kid 
gloves.  When  visiting  her  in  Philadelphia,  he  brought 
a  champagne  basket  full  of  gifts.  Among  them,  she 
says,  were  "  a  bag  of  red  and  white  sugar  hearts, 
fruit  and  cakes,  nuts  and  candy,  everything  that  Papa 
thought  I  would  like.  So  all  the  girls,  that  had  not 
gone  home  for  the  holidays,  had  a  feast.  But  the 
next  day,  Miss  Cynthia,  her  wig  on  one  side  of  her 
head  and  her  cap  on  the  other  as  usual,  found  it 
necessary  to  administer  salts  and  senna  to  at  least  one 
sick  child." 

While  at  school  in  Philadelphia  she  enjoyed  some 
outside  social  privileges.  At  either  of  two  houses  in 
the  city  she  occasionally  spent  a  Saturday  afternoon. 
One  of  them  was  the  home  of  Miss  Margie  Robertson, 
a  day  scholar,  whose  uncle,  while  in  China,  made  the 


acquaintance  of  Mary's  uncle  there.  Hence  the  tie 
between  them;  the  other  was  the  pleasant,  attractive 
residence  of  Mrs.  Weir,  a  warm  friend  of  her  Aunt 
Georgette.  She  says,  "  There  was  a  garden  that  I 
enjoyed  to  the  full,  not  having  even  a  flower  in  a 
pot  at  the  school." 

Moreover  she  spent  her  long  vacation,  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1851,  in  Brookline,  Massachusetts,  with  her 
numerous  uncles,  aunts  and  cousins,  who  resided  there. 
They  had  pleasant  homes  with  attractive  grounds. 
Most  of  them  had  intimately  known  her  mother,  whom 
they  highly  esteemed  and  ardently  loved,  and  for  her 
sake  they  naturally  made  much  of  her  only  daughter. 
That  summer  was  a  bright  and  happy  spot  in  Mary's 
early  life.  Dr.  Fife  of  Woodstock,  Ontario,  who  mar 
ried  her  mother's  Aunt  Rebecca,  was  there.  He  loved 
to  take  long  walks  and  often  took  her  along  with  him. 
"  He  knew,"  she  said,  "  all  the  flowers  of  the  region,  but 
if  he  was  at  a  loss  for  the  name  of  a  flower,  I  always 
had  one  ready  at  the  tip  of  my  tongue."  This  declara 
tion  reveals  an  important  fact  in  her  life.  From  her 
girlhood  she  was  a  practical  botanist.  Wherever  she 
went  she  very  soon  became  acquainted  with  every 
flower,  shrub  and  tree  and  called  each  one  by  its  com 
mon  or  scientific  name,  usually  by  both.  In  her  own 
words,  —  "I  had  a  very  lovely  summer.  Aunt  Susie 
took  me  with  her  to  visit  the  sick  and  the  poor.  The 
pastor  at  that  time  was  Dr.  Shailer,  who  had  a  lame 
little  daughter.  We  used  to  gather  raspberries  in  the 
garden  for  her  and  I  was  allowed  to  carry  them  to  the 

1 80 


parsonage.  There  were  in  this  garden  some  old  apple- 
trees  with  low  branches.  In  one  of  them  I  had  a 
favorite  corner  where  I  could  sit  on  one  limb  and  rest 
my  feet  on  another.  Though  the  apples  were  green 
they  never  seemed  to  hurt  me,  and  I  often  had  a  lunch 
of  Aunt  Susie's  nice  fluted  gingerbread,  which  she  kept 
in  a  certain  tin  box  for  my  delectation.  In  a  little 
room  upstairs  were  cases  full  of  books,  belonging  to 
Uncle  Daniel.  These  too  were  devoured  in  my  nest 
in  the  apple-tree." 

In  1852  she  left  the  school  in  Philadelphia,  where 
she  had  spent  two  years.  She  did  not  while  there 
wake  up  to  the  importance  of  careful  hard  study.  She 
had  done  but  little  if  any  of  it  up  to  the  time  when 
she  bade  good-by  to  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love.  But 
the  passion  for  reading  had  been  fanned  to  a  fiercer 
flame  and  burned  on  till  the  end  of  her  earthly  life. 

Many  years  afterwards  she  gave  her  estimate  of  the 
school  of  the  Misses  Anable  in  the  following  words: 

"  It  was  a  real  old-fashioned  girls'  school.  We 
spoke  nothing  but  French  at  meals,  or  were  supposed 
to  do  so.  We  went  to  walk  two  and  two  with  a 
teacher  at  each  end  of  the  line,  and  the  little  boys 
in  the  street  occasionally  called  us  '  the  menagerie.' 
We  learned  to  play  a  little  on  the  piano,  to  draw  a 
little,  in  fact  to  do  a  little  of  everything.  The  best 
thing  however  that  came  to  us  was  our  association 
with  four  highly  cultivated  Christian  ladies,  who 
really  tried  to  make  good  and  fine  women  out  of  us." 

We  find  her  next  in  a  private  school  at  Flushing, 

181 


Long  Island,  kept  by  a  Quaker  family  in  their  own 
house.  Here  she  went  on  with  her  French.  Having 
been  required  by  the  Misses  Anable  to  speak  that 
language  more  or  less  while  in  Philadelphia,  she  found 
her  knowledge  of  it  quite  equal  to  that  of  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  who  now  undertook  to  teach  her.  She 
was  soon  promoted  to  read  alone  with  her  instructor 
the  history  of  Numa  Pompilius,  the  second  king  of 
Rome.  It  was  easy  French  and  she  was  at  once 
deeply  interested  in  the  biographical  events  narrated. 
She  took  her  copy  of  the  book  home  and  read  it 
through  in  a  single  evening.  This  quite  upset  her 
tall,  sandy-haired,  angular  teacher,  who  wanted  her 
to  read  only  half  a  page  a  day.  The  other  things 
taught  her  were  much  like  those  that  she  had  been 
called  upon  to  learn  in  Philadelphia.  She  says,  "  We 
were  taught  a  lot  of  things  that  were  of  no  particular 
use  to  us  in  our  more  mature  life;  a  little  drumming 
on  the  piano,  a  good  deal  of  fine  stitching,  which  the 
sewing  machine  has  superseded,  the  making  of  ugly 
embroideries  at  the  risk  of  our  eyes,  the  preserving 
of  fruit  in  the  most  expensive  manner,  which  the 
process  of  canning  and  the  large  importation  of  fruit 
have  made  almost  obsolete.  All  these  things  we 
learned  and  hated." 

Her  most  important  training  in  school  now  demands 
our  attention.  In  1854  the  family  was  at  Tariffville, 
Connecticut.  The  stepmother  grew  more  and  more 
weary  of  the  two  older  children.  The  tension  was 
near  the  breaking  point.  To  relieve  it  and  avoid  a 

182 


catastrophe,  Mr.  Roberts  decided  to  send  his  older 
son  to  school  at  Poughkeepsie,  on  the  Hudson  River, 
and  his  daughter  to  a  "  Female  Academy  "  at  Hudson, 
a  small  but  thriving  and  beautiful  city,  the  capital  of 
Columbia  County,  N.  Y.,  on  the  east  bank  of  the 
Hudson  River,  thirty-six  miles  south  of  Albany.  Its 
environment  was  attractive;  the  broad  river,  with  its 
steamboats  and  sailing  craft  constantly  passing  up 
and  down  stream,  was  a  stimulating  sight.  The 
Academy  was  a  private  enterprise,  built  up,  and  pre 
sided  over,  by  Rev.  John  B.  Hague,  an  accurate 
scholar  and  an  enthusiastic  teacher. 

When  Mary  entered  this  Academy  she  found  her 
self  among  about  thirty  or  forty  young  women. 
Speaking  of  her  first  experience  there  she  said:  "  I 
was  a  very  shy  little  girl  of  fourteen,  very  small  for 
my  age,  with  no  education  to  speak  of  except  a  smat 
tering  of  French,  a  little  Latin  and  Watts  on  the 
Mind."  Her  discursive  education,  her  general  knowl 
edge  of  things,  was  probably  beyond  that  of  most  of 
her  associates;  but  that  did  not  materially  help  her 
in  the  specific  studies  which  now  confronted  her.  She 
was  quite  ignorant  of  arithmetic;  she  herself  declares 
that  she  hardly  knew  the  multiplication  table,  yet 
her  teachers  put  her  into  algebra  and  followed  that 
with  geometry  and  trigonometry.  This  was  probably 
done  because  it  was  so  set  down  in  the  prescribed 
course  of  study. 

When*' she  began  her  work  at  Hudson  she  had  but 
little  self-confidence.  She  says,  "  I  had  been  told  all 

183 


my  life,  first  by  Ann,  my  nurse,  and  then  by  my  step 
mother,  that  I  was  stupid,  awkward,  unreliable  and 
good  for  nothing  generally.  I  was  afraid  to  say  that 
my  soul  was  my  own,  unless  some  one  hurt  my  feelings 
and  then  I  was  often  thrown  into  a  passion.  I  loved 
and  enjoyed  nature  and  was  living  a  life  in  books 
quite  apart  from  the  daily  routine.  I  was  profoundly 
unhappy.  Mama  did  not  love  me.  My  father  could 
not  show  me  any  endearment  without  exciting  her 
jealousy.  I  used  often  to  add  to  my  evening  devotions 
a  prayer  that  I  might  die." 

It  was  a  sad  day  to  her  when  she  was  left  alone  at 
Hudson.  But  soon  she  says,  "  A  fair-haired  girl  about 
my  own  age,  with  the  loveliest  blue  eyes,  came  to 
me  and  said, '  We  are  both  strangers,  let  us  be  friends,' 
and  led  me  out  into  the  natural  life  of  a  boarding- 
school  student." 

She  now  discovered  that  the  young  ladies,  into 
whose  society  she  had  been  thrown,  were  very  con 
siderate  of  each  other.  Several  of  the  older  ones  were 
devoted  Christians.  They  established  a  Saturday 
evening  prayer-meeting  in  one  of  their  rooms  and 
talked  to  the  younger  students  that  attended  it  in 
the  most  direct  and  loving  way,  and  led  them  gently 
into  the  kingdom  of  our  Lord.  She  soon  came  to  love 
warmly  these  happy,  earnest  Christian  young  women, 
who  were  so  solicitous  for  the  salvation  of  all  in  the 
school.  While  she  was  always  very  reticent  about 
her  deepest,  most  sacred  experiences,  it  is  pretty  clear 
that  here  her  heart  was  touched  and  transformed  by 

184 


the  Spirit  of  God.  From  that  time  she  was  always 
on  the  most  intimate  terms  with  her  Saviour.  She 
no  more  doubted  His  constant  and  intimate  presence 
with  her  than  she  did  the  beating  of  her  heart  or  the 
acts  of  her  will.  To  hear  her  pray  was  an  inspiration, 
since  it  brought  one  into  the  immediate  presence  of 
our  divine  Lord. 

What  intellectual  work  did  this  Academy  require 
of  its  students?  As  I  write,  its  four  years'  course  of 
study  lies  before  me.  In  it  Latin,  Mathematics, 
Ancient  History,  the  English  Classics  and  Intellectual 
and  Moral  Science  were  specially  emphasized,  while 
in  the  last  year  of  the  course  French  and  German  were 
required.  It  was  a  good  disciplinary  course  of  study, 
such  as  was  in  vogue  in  those  days.  This  course 
Mary  and  her  intimate  life-long  friend,  Miss  Sophie 
L.  Savage,  completed  in  three  years.  The  latter 
writes  me,  "  Mary  was  a  hard-working,  conscientious 
^student.  We  often  dug  out  our  Latin  and  mathemat 
ics  together,  and  there  was  a  small  circle  of  us,  who 
greatly  enjoyed  reading  together  the  best  English 
literature." 

This  comradeship  in  study  may  have  been  carried 
too  far  for  the  highest  good  of  all.  It  is  often  very 
beneficial  to  the  one  in  the  group  that  leads,  but  is  apt 
to  be  quite  detrimental  to  those  that  dependency 
follow.  Mary  has  left  her  testimony,  which  throws  a 
sidelight  on  what  occurred  in  her  immediate  coterie. 
She  said,  "  I  was  again  the  youngest  in  my  class  but 
I  got  along  pretty  well  in  most  of  my  studies,  being 

185 


carried  bodily  through  my  mathematics  by  Sophie  and 
Rose,  who  did  my  examples  if  I  would  help  them 
read  their  Latin."  The  leader  in  each  case  walked 
ahead  without  help,  while  those  that  followed  must 
have  gone  on  crutches,  probably  losing  power  as  they 
hobbled  on  behind. 

But  in  spite  of  all  drawbacks,  Mary  acquired  in 
this  school  real  intellectual  discipline,  the  power  to 
think  clearly  and  consecutively  and  to  express  her 
thoughts  in  a  simple,  direct,  forceful  style.  Poetic 
in  temperament,  a  strain  that  flowed  down  to  her 
from  her  maternal  grandfather,  she  responded  to  a 
like  strain  in  her  gifted  teacher  and  began  to  write 
in  verse,  many  stanzas  of  which  had  the  imaginative, 
creative  touch  of  genuine  poetry.  A  single  specimen 
from  her  many  early  effusions,  will  confirm  and  illus 
trate  what  I  say.  The  following  poem  on  Forests 
was  written  before  she  was  seventeen. 

Standing  by  river  side, 
Bathed  by  the  ocean's  tide, 
Far  o'er  the  country  wide, 

Lovely  and  green ! 
Waving  now  branches  light, 
Now  plumes  as  dark  as  night, 
Shading  the  fountains  bright, 

Forests  are  seen. 

Birds,  with  their  joyous  lay, 
Brooks,  singing  on  their  way, 
Winds,  with  the  leaves  at  play, 
Fill  them  with  song ! 

1 86 


Moss,  soft  to  squirrels'  feet, 
Wild  rose  and  lily  sweet, 
The  hare  and  rabbit  fleet, 
To  them  belong. 

They  stand  as  temples  grand, 
Pure  from  their  Maker's  hand, 
Through  every  clime  and  land, 

Pointing  to  Heaven ; 
They  lift  their  heads  on  high, 
Resting  against  the  sky, 
E'er  Him  to  glorify, 

Who  them  has  given. 

And  when  the  Autumn  flings 
Joy  from  her  rosy  wings, 
And  clothes  all  earthly  things 

In  her  rich  dyes, 
Doffing   its   mantle   green, 
Robed  as  of  earth  the  queen, 
The  wood  awhile  is  seen, 

'Till   Autumn   flies. 

Like  hues  that  sometimes  grace 
A  pale  but  lovely  face, 
Fading  away  apace, 

As  the  life  wanes ; 
Beauteous  they  meet  the  eye, 
Hiding  the  ills  that  lie 
Seeming  far  off,  yet  nigh, 

'Till  power  death  gains. 

And  though  through  Winter  drear, 
Hung  with  the  icy  spear, 
Their  leaves  all  brown  and  sere, 
The  forests  stand ; 

187 


Yet  when  returning  Spring 
The  song-bird  back  shall  bring, 
Their  green  shade  shall  they  fling 
Far  through  the  land. 

Thus  in  the  darksome  grave 
We  lay  the  good  and  brave, 
Returning  what  He  gave 

Unto  the  Giver ; 
Rising  from  death's  cold  night 
Into  the  Heaven's  blessed  light, 
Sorrows  all  put  to  flight, 

They  live  forever. 

While  at  Hudson  one  social  force  outside  the  school 
did  much  toward  cultivating  her  tastes  and  moulding 
her  character.  About  twenty-five  miles  down  the  river 
there  lived  at  Ellerslie,  an  estate  near  Rhinebeck,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  William  Kelly  and  his  sister,  Miss  Mary 
Jane.  Mr.  Kelly,  having  inherited  a  fortune,  bought 
this  attractive  place  of  several  hundred  acres.  On  it 
was  a  large,  white  colonial  mansion,  on  three  sides  of 
which  were  wide  unroofed  piazzas.  It  stood  so  high 
that  from  it  the  river  could  be  seen  for  a  long  distance 
as  it  wound  toward  the  sea.  There  were  near  it  ex 
tensive  green-houses.  The  table  was  supplied  from 
them  with  foreign  grapes,  pineapples,  early  straw 
berries  and  vegetables.  Every  morning  during  the 
winter,  trays  of  flowers  were  brought  into  the  house, 
which  made  the  rooms  a  continual  bower  of  beauty 
and  fragrance.  There  were  also  times  in  spring  and 
autumn  when  the  gardens  and  groves  were  a  dream  of 

1 88 


beauty.  In  short,  Ellerslie  was  Mary's  ideal  of  all 
that  was  picturesque  and  lovely. 

Mr.  Kelly  was  a  warm  personal  friend  of  her  father 
and  about  once  a  month  invited  her  to  spend  Saturday 
and  Sunday  under  his  roof.  The  lavish  kindness 
which  she  met  there,  all  that  she  saw  and  heard  con 
tributed  not  only  to  her  happiness  but  also  to  her 
development  of  mind  and  heart. 

She  met  there  Miss  Julia  Stuart,  who  became  a  life 
long  friend.  Miss  Stuart  was  the  daughter  of  a  New 
York  artist,  and  an  orphan.  The  Kellys  out  of  sheer 
benevolence  had  in  fact  adopted  her  all  but  in  name. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  Mary's  glad  fellowship  with  her 
friend,  drawn  by  her  own  hand.  They  had  a  copy  of 
Longfellow's  Hiawatha,  which  had  just  come  from  the 
press,  and  together  they  read  it  through  one  winter 
afternoon.  "  We  snuggled  among  the  cushions  of  the 
big,  dark  green  velvet  sofa-settee,  which  was  drawn 
up  in  front  of  a  great  wood  fire  always  blazing  during 
the  winter  in  the  fireplace  of  the  long  dining-room. 
'  Major,'  the  St.  Bernard,  made  a  comfortable  foot 
stool,  and  '  Gyp,'  the  pet  ring-dove,  lighted  on  Julia's 
shoulder  or  strutted,  cooing,  up  and  down  the  back 
of  the  sofa.  I  never  see  the  book,  Hiawatha,  without 
recalling  the  whole  scene,  —  the  great  fire,  the  long 
windows  on  both  sides,  six  of  them  in  all,  each, with 
its  beautiful  wintry  view  of  the  grounds  or  the  river, 
the  organ,  with  its  gilded  pipes,  at  the  end  of  the 
room,  the  sideboard,  heavy  with  plate  and  decanters, 
and  old  Jim,  the  mulatto  butler,  with  his  frosty  head, 

189 


stealing  in  and  out  like  a  shadow."  The  gracious 
influence  of  this  Christian  home  must  have  a  large 
place  among  the  educative  forces  that  shaped  the 
character  and  life  of  Mary. 


V.     GRADUATION,    CHOSEN    PURSUIT,    BAPTISM 
AND    MARRIAGE 

THE  last  of  June,  1857,  before  her  seventeenth 
birthday,  she  graduated  from  the  Academy  at  Hud 
son.  She  calls  it  a  "  pleasant  school."  Mr.  Hague 
and  the  other  teachers  at  least  "  taught  me  how  to 
study."  She  was  sorry  to  leave  her  dear  friends  and 
text-books.  She  would  have  gladly  gone  on  for  many 
years,  but  as  that  was  impossible,  she  went  back  to 
Simsbury,  near  Tariffville,  "  to  the  cottage,  to  Mama 
and  to  all  her  perplexities."  So  she  puts  it.  Still 
she  acknowledges  that  she  learned,  during  the  year 
after  her  graduation,  more  or  less  about  cooking, 
sewing  and  caring  for  the  house. 

Immediately  after  her  graduation  from  the  Acad 
emy  she  was  quite  determined  to  make  teaching  her 
life-work.  Through  her  Uncle  Gardner  Colby,  she 
made  a  verbal  contract  to  teach  Latin  in  a  private 
school  of  high  grade.  But  her  father  failed  to  appre 
ciate  the  dignity  of  her  chosen  pursuit.  He  could  not 
bear  the  thought  that  his  only  daughter  should  sup 
port  herself  by  any  employment.  She  loved  him 
tenderly  and  since  he  so  emphatically  disapproved  of 

190 


her  teaching,  she  asked  to  be  released  from  her  en 
gagement  and  reluctantly  abandoned  her  purpose. 

At  this  time  she  was  also  earnestly  considering  the 
question  of  making  an  open  profession  of  her  faith 
and  uniting  with  some  church.  All  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  had  led  her  to  do  her  own  thinking  and  she 
now  determined  that  she  would  not  become  a  Baptist 
just  because  her  father  and  mother  were.  So  she 
secured  and  attentively  read  anti-Baptistic  books,  that 
she  might  know,  and  carefully  consider  the  views  of 
scholarly  pedo-Baptist  authors,  secretly  desiring  that 
those  views  might  prove  altogether  convincing  and 
satisfactory.  But  after  having  read  and  conned  them 
with  open  mind,  she  was  still  in  doubt.  So  she  turned 
to  the  New  Testament,  concluding  to  follow  its  teach 
ings  whithersoever  they  might  lead  her.  In  1858  a 
great  revival  of  religion  swept  over  the  country. 
Young  men  from  Hartford  came  to  Tariffville  and 
held  a  protracted  meeting.  She  now  decided  to  con 
fess  her  Lord  in  what  she  believed  to  be  His  own 
appointed  way,  and  asked  the  Baptist  Church  at 
Tariffville  for  baptism  and  church  membership.  She 
and  her  two  brothers,  on  a  lovely  Sunday  morning 
in  April,  were  baptized  in  the  Farmington  River,  that, 
not  far  away,  flowed  by  their  cottage  in  the  wood. 
Whenever  she  called  up  this  incident  in  her  life,  she 
claimed  that  she  was  not  an  hereditary  Baptist,  but 
by  independent  investigation  became  one  from  con 
viction,  against  her  natural  inclination. 

To  her  great  joy  she  spent  six  weeks  of  the  follow- 

10! 


ing  summer  with  her  Aunt  Mary  Colby  at  Newton 
Centre,  Massachusetts.  There  she  enjoyed  the 
society  of  her  cousins,  one  of  whom  was  engaged  to 
be  married,  another,  a  jolly  fellow,  had  just  graduated 
from  Brown  University,  and  another  was  to  enter  the 
University  in  the  fall.  Her  aunt,  to  enhance  the 
pleasure  of  them  all,  sent  for  her  cousin,  Agnes 
Mcjannett,  with  whom  Mary  had  played  in  her  child 
hood  and  who  was  specially  dear  to  her,  taking  in  her 
affections  the  place  of  a  sister.  These  young  people, 
brimming  over  with  all  sorts  of  fun,  had  the  freedom 
of  the  Colby  buildings  and  grounds,  and  each  day 
brought  to  them  fresh  delights.  Mary  felt  that  she 
had  been  ushered  into  an  earthly  paradise.  The 
warm  affection  of  her  aunt,  her  occasional  visits  to  her 
Great-grandmother  Kendall  and  her  Aunt  Susie  at 
Brookline,  the  mirthful  group  of  which  she  was  a 
conscious  part,  their  daily  round  of  jointly  contrived 
amusements  in  the  house,  the  barn,  the  orchard  and 
the  wood  gave  her  a  new  view  of  family  life.  She 
declared  it  to  be  the  happiest  time  of  her  girlhood. 
But  this  bright,  delightful  summer  was  soon  over  and 
Mary  went  back  to  her  home  and  her  stepmother  at 
Simsbury. 

Near  the  close  of  1859,  a  New  York  dry-goods  firm 
requested  her  father  to  open  for  them  a  branch  house 
in  St.  Louis.  Yielding  to  their  solicitation,  he  removed 
his  family  thither.  They  made  the  journey  from 
their  Connecticut  home  by  easy  stages,  stopping  for 
a  few  days  at  Ellerslie  on  the  Hudson  in  the  attrac- 

192 


tive  home  of  the  Kellys,  spending  Christmas  in 
Detroit,  tarrying  a  day  or  two  in  Chicago,  which  was 
then  being  lifted  up  in  sections  out  of  the  mud  by 
jack-screws,  and  travelling  through  Illinois  on  the 
thirty-first  of  December.  To  Mary,  passionately 
fond  of  the  hills  and  mountains  of  New  England,  the 
journey  was  unattractive  and  disappointing.  She 
said,  "  I  have  never  forgotten  how  utterly  dreary 
and  forlorn  the  winter  landscape  seemed  to  me  as  we 
rode  through  Illinois,  always  the  same,  sometimes  a 
little  station  with  a  man  or  two  and  a  dog  on  the 
platform,  great  prairies  stretching  to  the  horizon, 
partly  rough  stubble  land,  partly  covered  with  snow. 
If  this  were  the  West,  I  saw  all  I  wanted  of  it  on  the 
last  day  of  the  year  1859."  Later  in  life  this  esti 
mate  was  replaced  by  another,  when  she  had  explored 
the  still  greater  West,  gazed  on  the  snow-crowned 
Sierra  Nevada,  the  gorgeous  wonders  of  the  Grand 
Canon  of  the  Colorado,  the  entrancing  views  of  the 
Yosemite  Valley  and  the  sublimities  of  the  Canadian 
Rockies. 

Arriving  at  St.  Louis  Saturday  night,  the  family 
put  up  at  the  Planter's  Hotel.  I  was  then  pastor  of 
the  Second  Baptist  Church  of  that  city.  The  next 
day  the  children  with  their  father  worshipped  with 
us.  That  was  the  first  time  that  I  saw  Mary.  She 
was  then  a  rosy-cheeked  young  woman  with  black 
hair,  and  black,  or  very  dark,  eyes.  She  was  a  good 
listener,  such  as  always  helps  the  preacher.  Meeting 
her  during  that  week  at  an  evening  party,  she  asked 

193 


for  the  reasons  of  certain  declarations  that  I  had  made 
in  my  sermon  on  Sunday.  I  gave  her  the  information 
that  she  sought  and  was  delighted  to  find  that  I  had 
a  hearer  who  was  so  intelligent  and  inquisitive.  She 
soon  became  a  teacher  in  the  Sunday  School.  She 
was  given  a  class  of  girls  from  twelve  to  fifteen  years 
of  age  and  in  a  few  weeks  had  the  great  joy  of  seeing 
them  all  converted  and  baptized. 

A  few  months  passed  by  and  I  found  myself  mak 
ing  rather  frequent  calls  at  her  father's  house.  In 
short,  we  loved  and  plighted  to  each  other  our  undying 
affection.  She  was  at  that  time  nearly  twenty-one; 
I  was  twenty-nine.  On  April  23,  1861,  we  were 
married.  The  wedding  was  strictly  private.  Only 
a  few  of  our  respective  families  that  chanced  to  be  in 
St.  Louis,  together  with  some  very  intimate  personal 
friends,  were  invited.  A  few  weeks  before,  Mary's 
younger  brother,  to  whom  with  unusual  tenderness 
she  was  attached,  had  died.  The  state  of  the  stricken 
family  forbade  any  public  ceremony.  Rev.  Melvin 
Jameson,  of  Alton,  Illinois,  a  college  mate  of  mine, 
officiated.  At  the  time  all  Missouri  was  seething  with 
political  excitement  and  St.  Louis  was  rent  in  twain 
between  the  Secessionists  and  Unionists.  Already 
Fort  Sumter,  in  Charleston  Harbor,  under  the  fire  of 
rebel  guns  had  surrendered  and  threatening  war 
clouds  were  gathering  over  our  city.  So  we  were 
wedded  in  dark  and  troublous  days. 

There  had  been  some  violent  outbreaks  in  St.  Louis 
and  such  was  the  temper  of  the  public  mind  that  I 

194 


did  not  feel  justified  in  being  absent  from  my  church 
and  congregation  for  more  than  eight  or  ten  days.  So 
we  began  our  honeymoon  by  taking  an  evening  train 
for  Cincinnati. 

Our  first  journey  as  husband  and  wife  was  marked 
by  one  ludicrous  but  disagreeable  event.  There  were 
no  sleeping  cars,  so  we  occupied  two  seats,  bolstering 
ourselves  up  as  comfortably  as  we  could  with  cushions 
and  shawls.  We  were  just  insensibly  slipping  into 
the  land  of  nod,  when  the  great  watering  hose,  with 
which  they  had  just  filled  the  steam-boiler,  carelessly 
left  in  a  horizontal  position,  as  the  cars  moved  on, 
poured  its  full  stream  of  water  against  the  windows 
of  our  coach.  The  impact  broke  our  .window  and 
drenched  us  from  head  to  foot.  Our  plight  though 
serious  was  at  the  same  time  so  comic  that  we  in 
voluntarily  broke  out  into  laughter.  My  wife  wore  a 
poplin  travelling  dress,  which,  drying  during  the 
night,  shrank  amazingly.  So  when  we  reached  our 
destination,  early  the  next  morning,  her  dress  was  so 
shrivelled  up  that  she  looked  like  anything  but  a  bride. 
We  at  first  were  merry  over  our  dilapidated  appear 
ance,  and  then  patriotically  thrilled  as  we  looked  on 
that  great  city  of  Southern  Ohio,  blossoming  with 
star-spangled  banners.  When  we  left  St.  Louis  the 
evening  before,  there  were  in  that  whole  city  only  two 
national  banners  hung  out  to  the  public  gaze,  but  at 
the  rising  of  the  sun  we  saw  this  neighboring  city, 
where  from  every  house,  office,  store  and  public  build 
ing  the  stars  and  stripes  were  flung  to  the  breeze. 

195 


That  universal,  spontaneous  expression  of  loyalty  and 
patriotism  stirred  our  souls  to  their  depths,  and  that 
glad  hour  could  never  be  forgotten. 

Having  spent  a  delightful  week  in  and  around 
Cincinnati,  we  returned  to  St.  Louis.  When  we 
reached  the  ferry  landing  opposite  the  city,  we  were 
quite  surprised  to  find  several  deacons  of  the  church 
there  to  greet  us.  We  saw  at  a  glance  that  they  were 
sober  and  anxious.  And  this  is  the  explanation  of  it. 
The  Sunday  evening  before  our  marriage,  unable  any 
longer  to  hold  in  silence  my  patriotic  views,  even  to 
preserve  the  public  peace,  I  had  preached  an  out  and 
out  sermon  against  secession  and  in  favor  of  main 
taining  the  Union.  It  was  the  first  pulpit  utterance 
of  the  kind  heard  in  our  city.  And  to  cap  the  climax, 
we  sang  at  the  close  of  the  service,  My  Country,  'tis 
of  Thee. 

This,  as  might  have  been  expected,  incited  to 
wrath  the  rougher  and  specially  vindictive  element 
of  the  Secessionists.  On  the  Sunday  night  of  our 
absence,  a  vengeful  crowd  gathered  in  the  streets  by 
my  church  to  chastise  me.  They  belonged  to  that  class 
of  Southern  men  who,  in  that  day,  answered  an  oppo 
nent's  arguments  by  putting  a  bullet  through  him. 
They  began  that  Sunday  night  by  throwing  a  brickbat 
through  a  window  opposite  the  pulpit,  but,  learning  in 
some  way  that  I  was  not  there,  disappointed  of  their 
prey,  they,  cursing  their  luck,  sullenly  dispersed.  My 
good  deacons  had  come  to  the  ferry  to  persuade  me,  if 
possible,  to  prolong  my  wedding  tour,  fearing  that  my 

196 


home-coming  just  then  might  court  disaster.  But  I 
assured  them  that  I  had  no  fear,  and  contended  that 
those  comprising  that  mob,  controlled  by  the  floating 
gossip  of  the  hour,  had  utterly  mistaken  the  spirit  of 
my  sermon,  and  to  correct  their  misapprehension,  I 
would  at  once  publish  it.  So,  returning  to  my  house, 
without  a  moment's  delay,  I  sat  down  by  my  study- 
table  and  never  rose  till  I  had  written  out  in  full  that 
offending  discourse.  The  next  morning  it  appeared 
in  the  Missouri  Republican,  a  Democratic  paper,  a 
Semi-secession  sheet,  that  all  the  disloyal  eagerly 
read.  The  perusal  of  my  sermon  quelled,  as  I  thought 
it  would,  for  the  time  being,  the  mob  spirit.  This 
discourse,  that  disturbed  somewhat  our  honeymoon, 
afterwards  became  a  part  of  Moore's  Rebellion 
Record. 


VI.     MEETING   NEW   RESPONSIBILITIES 

WE  must  now  note  how  the  youthful  bride  met  her 
new  and  onerous  responsibilities.  When  she  became 
the  mistress  of  my  home,  she  found  there,  heartily  to 
greet  her,  an  older  sister  of  mine,  Mrs.  Lucy  Whelan, 
who  for  months  had  presided  over  my  household  with 
rare  tact  and  fidelity;  also  a  daughter  of  my  sister,  a 
bright,  active  school-girl.  Henry  C.  Leach,  one  of  my 
young  deacons,  was  also  living  with  me.  My  sister 
and  niece  stayed  with  us  for  several  weeks  and  were 
a  great  help  and  comfort  to  Mary.  At  last  they  re- 

197 


turned  to  their  home  in  Western  New  York  and  the 
youthful  deacon  left,  lured  by  enterprises  farther 
West.  We  were  now  alone,  and  Mary  was  not  only 
in  name  but  in  reality  sole  mistress  of  her  new  home. 

The  house  on  Chestnut,  second  door  from  Thir 
teenth,  Street,  opposite  a  livery  stable,  was  one  in  a 
continuous  brick  block,  built  out  to  the  sidewalk. 
Nearly  all  of  St.  Louis  at  that  time  was  red  brick, 
brick  stores,  brick  houses,  brick  sidewalks. 

Our  hired  house  had  three  stories  with  a  two-story 
L,  surrounded  by  a  gallery  in  Southern  fashion;  this 
made  the  back  rooms  dark.  In  fact  the  whole  house 
was  a  rather  dismal  place,  with  heavy  old-fashioned 
furniture,  and  the  light  quite  effectually  shut  out  from 
the  parlors  by  sombre  rep  curtains.  When  my  bride 
found  herself  in  sole  possession,  she  at  once  made  some 
changes  that  added  not  a  little  to  my  comfort  and 
efficiency.  My  study  had  been  on  the  ground  floor, 
immediately  over  the  basement  kitchen,  in  the  dreary 
back  parlor,  with  only  one  window,  looking  out  on  a 
backyard,  paved  with  those  ubiquitous,  ugly  red  bricks. 
She  contended  that  such  an  unattractive,  unpoetical 
environment  must  be  a  handicap  to  the.  making  of 
decent  sermons.  So  she  transferred  the  books,  chairs 
and  study-table  to  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor, 
into  which  the  sunlight  streamed  through  two  large 
windows.  It  was  the  most  cheerful,  heartsome  room 
in  the  house. 

She  herself  often  sat  with  me  in  the  new  study. 
Having  acquired  a  smattering  of  the  Greek  grammar, 

198 


she  joined  me  in  reading  the  Greek  New  Testament. 
She  says  in  her  reminiscences  of  those  days:  "  My 
husband  did  all  the  work  and  I  learned  quite  a  good 
deal  following  his  reading.  It  was  a  pleasant  break 
in  the  morning's  duties  for  me  to  go  into  the  study  and 
look  up  words  in  the  dictionary.  After  awhile  I  could 
read  my  verse  in  turn  fairly  well.  We  kept  this  up 
for  a  long  time.  I  often  brought  in  the  baby  to  play 
on  the  rug  while  we  read."  This  is  a  side  light  on 
"  the  elect  lady  "  of  the  manse. 

But  she  allowed  nothing  to  trench  on  her  domestic 
duties.  She  kept  her  whole  house  firmly  in  hand  and, 
without  friction,  it  was  well  ordered.  It  was  always 
tidy  and  attractive.  Little,  but  important,  things,  the 
tasteful  grouping  of  the  furnishings  and  colors  of  a 
room,  bouquets  of  flowers  deftly  arranged,  made  it 
inviting  and  restful,  and  it  was  ever  irradiated  by 
the  sunshine  of  her  heart.  However  humble  in  some 
respects  it  might  have  been,  its  atmosphere  of  love 
was  manifest  to  all. 

When  she  came  into  my  household  I  had  an  adopted 
boy,  Thomas  Calvert.  He  was  an  orphan  that  I 
found  one  day  when  making  pastoral  calls.  He  was 
a  bright  little  fellow,  full  of  mischief,  and  did,  for  a 
child,  a  good  deal  of  clear  thinking.  The  care  of  him 
was  no  inconsiderable  burden,  and  I  hesitated  to  lay 
it  upon  my  young  bride.  But  no  objection  to  this 
responsibility  fell  from  her  lips.  Gladly  accepting 
the  task  as  from  her  divine  Lord,  she  took  the  child 
at  once  into  her  heart.  She  became  to  him  a  true, 

199 


affectionate  mother,  and  he  found  rest  and  joy  in  her 
tender  love. 

But  the  blood  of  poor  Tommie  was  tainted  with 
scrofula,  which  at  first  manifested  itself  in  hip-disease. 
This  was  very  painful  and  at  times  exceedingly  offen 
sive,  yet  for  months  she  was  his  patient,  gentle  nurse. 
She  was  so  full  of  sympathy  for  the  suffering  child 
that  she  suffered  with  him,  taking  up  into  herself  his 
manifold  distresses.  From  this  attack  he  became  a 
cripple  and  went  on  crutches  the  rest  of  his  short 
life;  but  under  her  teaching,  he  very  early  became  a 
true  believer  in  Jesus  as  his  Saviour,  and  in  that  faith 
he  passed  on  to  the  "  better  country." 

While  she  nursed  and  tenderly  cared  for  the 
adopted,  invalid  boy,  God  blessed  her  with  two  sons 
of  her  own.  As  in  the  case  of  every  true  wife,  capable 
of  bearing  children,  maternity  was  to  her  an  unmixed 
joy.  The  coming  into  her  arms  of  healthful,  sturdy 
children  gave  her  exquisite  happiness.  But  while  her 
cares  were  thus  multiplied  and  her  responsibilities 
greatly  augmented,  she  never  lost,  even  for  an  hour, 
her  sweet  serenity  of  spirit. 

But  her  cares  extended  beyond  her  own  servants 
and  children.  We  tried  to  cultivate  the  grace  of 
Christian  hospitality,  as  we  believed  every  Christian 
pastor  should  do.  We  often  welcomed  strangers  to 
our  home,  and  many  times  rich  was  our  reward.  We 
were  delighted  to  entertain  for  several  days  Rev.  Mr. 
Wiberg  and  wife  of  Sweden.  For  many  years  he  was 
the  celebrated  leader  of  the  Baptists  of  that  country. 

200 


Every  hour  of  their  stay  was  a  joy  and  blessing  to  us. 
I  remember  also  that  Dr.  C.  F.  Tolman,  a  returned 
missionary  from  Assam,  and  Dr.  Hiscox  of  New  York 
at  different  times  tarried  with  us  for  awhile  and  left 
behind  them  the  pleasantest  of  memories.  But  in  this 
life  we  have  alternately  light  and  shade,  the  sweet 
and  the  bitter.  So  a  man  claiming  to  have  been  a 
college  mate  of  mine,  of  whom  I  had  at  the  best  but 
the  dimmest  recollection,  pulled  our  door-bell  and 
asked  for  entertainment.  He  was  received  and  stayed 
for  a  full  week.  He  was  getting  together  a  steamboat 
load  of  horses  to  take  to  market  somewhere  on  the 
lower  Mississippi.  He  made  himself  quite  at  home 
in  my  library.  He  read  my  Shakespeare  and  freely 
made  annotations  on  the  margins  of  the  leaves,  utterly 
spoiling  for  me  the  plays  that  he  read.  As  much  as 
we  gloried  in  being  hospitable,  we  were  not  sorry 
politely  to  say  good-by  to  that  college-bred  horse- 
trader. 

An  utter  stranger  came  to  us.  He  proved  to  be  an 
excellent  Christian  man  and  rendered  some  service 
in  a  city  mission  that  I  was  caring  for.  But  he  never 
seemed  to  work  very  hard.  He  was  evidently  poor 
in  pocket  and  liked  the  abode  into  which  he  had 
unceremoniously  drifted.  He  stayed  for  three  months 
and  then  regretfully  departed,  when  Mary,  whose 
patience  had  never  given  away,  diffidently  and  gently 
told  him  that  she  was  sorry  to  disturb  him,  but  that 
she  must  really  have  the  room  he  occupied  to  enter- 


20 1 


tain  some  friends  that  were  coming  from  a  distance 
to  see  her. 

Mary  was  gifted  in  her  practice  of  hospitality. 
She  was  naturally  social  and  brimming  over  with  good 
will.  Widely  read,  she  was  an  entertaining  conver 
sationalist.  Bright  and  witty  in  repartee,  she  put  her 
guests  at  ease  and  provoked  their  mirth.  She  had 
that  priceless  knack  of  making  them  feel  perfectly  at 
home.  Being  a  glad  hostess,  she  made  glad  guests. 

While  efficiently  caring  for  her  new  home  in  St. 
Louis,  she  now,  as  the  pastor's  wife,  entered  with 
augmented  zeal  into  church  work.  She  did  not  how 
ever,  young  as  she  was  and  comparatively  a  stranger, 
assume  to  be  a  leader.  Naturally  modest  and  shrink 
ing,  she  was  glad  to  do  whatever  came  to  her  hand, 
following  the  lead  of  those  who  were  older  and  who  for 
many  years  had  shaped  and  guided  the  activities  of 
the  women  in  the  church.  The  Civil  War  then  raging, 
their  labors  became  broader  and  more  manifold  than 
ever  before.  To  the  full  measure  of  her  strength, 
she  bore  her  part  with  others  in  scraping  lint  and 
preparing  bandages  for  the  army  surgeons,  in  feeding 
and  clothing  the  refugees,  both  white  and  colored, 
that  in  great  numbers  streamed  into  St.  Louis,  and  in 
caring  for  sick  and  wounded  soldiers  in  the  hos 
pitals.  She  was  intensely  patriotic.  The  blood  of 
the  Pilgrim  fathers  ran  in '  her  veins.  She  hated 
slavery.  She  was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  help 
her  country  then  in  its  Gethsemane,  sweating  great 
drops  of  blood.  She  was  constantly  working  to  pro- 

202 


mote  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  the  volunteer 
soldiers.  She  even  saved  all  valuable  papers  and 
magazines  that  came  into  the  house  and  distributed 
them  among  the  soldiers  encamped  in,  or  near,  the 
city,  and  often  gave  them  to  regiments  marching  by 
our  door.  Her  fervid  love  of  country  at  times  broke 
forth  into  songs  that  appeared  in  influential  journals 
and  were  widely  read. 

She  had  of  course  some  trials.  Who,  that  is  worth 
anything,  has  not?  Some  of  the  church  born  and  bred 
in  the  South  and  strongly  pro-slavery  in  sentiment, 
openly  disapproved  of  her,  and  even  refused  to  asso 
ciate  with  her.  She  uncomplainingly  bore  such  rude 
and  senseless  rebuffs.  She  expressed  no  resentment 
either  in  word  or  act.  With  quiet  dignity  she  kept  on 
about  her  own  work;  in  fact,  at  times  she  seemed  to 
be  genuinely  amused  with  conduct  that  was  so  mani 
festly  absurd.  Those  who  thus  refused  to  recognize 
her  were  very  few  in  number;  the  great  mass  of  the 
church  heartily  welcomed  her. 

In  her  reminiscences  of  those  days  she  says,  "  The 
whole  city  was  like  a  house  rocked  by  a  cyclone. 
Every  action  and  thought  was  influenced  by  the 
national  crisis.  It  even  affected  my  church  life  as 
wife  of  the  pastor.  When  it  was  understood  that  he 
was  to  marry  the  newcomer  from  the  East,  who  had 
been  quite  unguarded  in  answering  leading  questions 
as  to  her  views  on  the  burning  problems  of  the  day 
and  utterly  unsuspicious  of  the  reputation  of  being  an 
abolitionist,  then  so  easily  manufactured,  the  Southern 

203 


element  rose  up  in  protest.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  received 
me  kindly  and  were  always  my  good  friends,  but 
others  never  spoke  to  me  again." 

At  times  she  was  feverishly  anxious  for  my  safety. 
My  life  was  threatened.  Warnings  from  friendly 
sources  were  repeated  again  and  again  that  there  was 
a  conspiracy  to  take  it.  I  was  urged  not  to  go  out 
nights.  But  she  never  asked  me  to  flee  from  apparently 
imminent  danger,  but  stood  bravely  by  my  side, 
urging  me,  in  spite  of  any  disaster  that  might  come, 
to  do  faithfully  my  whole  duty  to  our  church,  our 
adopted  city  and  our  country. 

One  of  the  many  scenes  of  which  she  was  a  part 
will  reveal  her  flaming  patriotism  in  the  days  of  the 
war  for  the  maintenance  of  the  Union.  She  says: 
"  When  the  nation  was  greatly  depressed  by  a  series 
of  defeats  and  the  criticisms  of  the  grumblers,  a 
meeting  was  called  at  Mercantile  Library  Hall  to 
endorse  the  action  of  the  government  in  carrying  on 
the  war.  There  was  a  great  crowd  of  intensely  loyal 
people  packed  into  the  largest  hall  in  the  city.  We 
listened  to  speakers  who  passionately  poured  forth 
their  thoughts,  but  the  climax  was  reached  when  a 
woman  in  white,  carrying  the  stars  and  stripes,  sang 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner.  The  whole  assembly  rose 
to  their  feet;  handkerchiefs  were  waved;  every 
demonstration  seemed  too  powerless  to  express  our 
swelling  emotions.  We  broke  down  in  tears  as  we 
joined  in  the  chorus,  which  then  meant  so  much  to  us. 


204 


:<  Tis  the  star-spangled  banner,  O  long  may  it  wave, 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 

They  who  did  not  live  in  those  times  may  love  their 
country  and  their  flag,  but  we  almost  adored  them. 
They  then  personified  our  life,  our  liberty  and  our 
sacred  honor." 


VII.     CHANGE    OF    PLACE    AND    OCCUPATION 

BUT  our  stay  in  St.  Louis  was  hastening  to  an  end. 
I  had  already  suffered  from  fever  which  took  me  for 
three  months  from  my  pastorate.  I  proposed  to 
resign,  but  my  church  refused  to  listen  to  it  and  voted 
me  a  year's  absence.  I  took  about  eight  months  of  it, 
spending  that  time  with  Mary  and  our  children  in 
Wisconsin  and  on  the  Southern  Shore  of  Lake 
Superior.  Having  regained,  as  I  believed,  my  usual 
vigor,  I  returned  to  my  manifold  labors  as  preacher 
and  pastor  in  a  city  still  torn  by  political  factions 
and  filled  with  helpless,  suffering  victims  of  the  ruth 
less  war.  For  a  time  my  work  was  a  luxury  and  a 
joy,  but  a  few  months  sufficed  to  show  that  a  change 
to  some  different  line  of  mental  activity  would  be 
wisest  and  best.  An  altogether  unexpected  call  to  the 
chair  of  Homiletics,  Church  Polity  and  Pastoral  Duties 
came  to  me  from  Newton  Theological  Institution. 
After  long  and  anxious  deliberation  I  decided  to 
accept  it.  In  the  summer  of  1866,  I  went  with  my 

205 


family  to  Newton  Centre,  Massachusetts.  We  stopped 
for  a  few  days  in  Brockport,  Western  New  York, 
where  our  dear  adopted  boy  was  attacked  with  brain 
disease  and  died.  We  sent  his  body  back  to  St.  Louis 
for  burial  in  Bellefontaine  Cemetery  and  we  went  on 
our  way  to  Newton  with  sad  and  chastened  hearts. 
There,  in  the  autumn,  I  began  my  work  as  a  theolog 
ical  professor. 

To  Mary  this  change  of  residence  was  most  grate 
ful.  She  was  now  near  the  place  of  her  birth.  Here 
lived  her  favorite  aunt,  Mrs.  Gardner  Colby.  She 
and  her  generous  husband,  when  we  came,  received 
us  under  their  hospitable  roof  with  open  hearts  and 
arms.  We  secured  a  dwelling-house  not  far  from 
them,  on  the  same  street.  To  get  away  from  the  dust 
and  turmoil  of  a  great  smoky  city  and  sit  down  amid 
the  quietude  and  beauty  of  Newton  was  to  my  wife 
an  unspeakable  delight.  She  at  once  took  on  new 
life.  Her  pen  was  soon  busy.  It  broke  out  into  song. 
She  sang  the  glories  of  the  old  pine-tree  that  stood 
by  the  gate.  To  the  delight  of  her  little  sons,  she 
poured  forth  a  dirge  over  the  black  Spanish  hen,  that 
died  of  a  broken  heart  because  a  malodorous  prowler 
devoured  all  her  chicks;  and  at  night  she  sang  her 
babies  to  sleep  with  original  lullabies. 

Her  happiness  was  also  greatly  enhanced  by  her 
father's  fourth  marriage.  He  wooed  and  wedded  in 
London  a  daughter  of  a  retired  officer  of  the  English 
army.  She  was  only  three  or  four  years  older 
than  Mary  and  was  a  lady  of  gentle,  refined  manners, 

206 


with  a  great,  warm,  loving  heart.  Stepmother  and 
stepdaughter  at  once  fell  in  love  with  each  other,  and 
in  each  other's  society  were  the  happiest  of  women. 
But  this  exquisite  joy  that  came  so  suddenly  into 
Mary's  life  as  suddenly  departed.  A  few  months  after 
her  warm,  cordial  welcome  into  the  family,  this  greatly 
beloved  stepmother  passed  away.  We  all  deeply 
suffered  from  her  departure,  but  it  was  an  especially 
bitter  grief  to  her  stepdaughter. 

During  the  first  two  years  of  my  professorship  at 
Newton  another  shadow  at  times  rested  on  our  happi 
ness.  By  my  harassing  labors  in  St.  Louis,  my  health 
had  been  considerably  impaired.  The  trustees  of 
Newton  Theological  Institution  generously  granted 
me  a  year's  absence  in  Europe  that  I  might  regain 
my  normal  strength.  Then  the  question  arose  whether 
I  should  go  alone  or  take  wife  and  children  with  me. 
This  Mary  herself  decided.  It  would  have  been  heroic 
for  her  to  have  remained  at  home,  but  it  was  still  more 
heroic  for  her  to  go.  We  now  had  three  children.  The 
oldest  was  six,  the  youngest,  a  precious  little  daughter, 
was  barely  six  months  old.  Yet  Mary,  insisting  that 
I  was  too  ill  properly  to  care  for  myself,  gently  but 
resolutely  insisted  on  going  with  me.  She  had  her 
way,  which  proved  to  be  wisest  and  best. 

Early  in  the  spring  of  1868,  we  took  our  priceless 
brood  with  the  necessary  bags  and  baggage  and  sailed 
to  Europe.  After  spending  a  few  days  in  England, 
we  pushed  on  up  the  Rhine  and  finally  made  our  way 
to  Heidelberg.  Here  under  the  shadow  of  its  cele- 

207 


brated  university,  near  the  ruins  of  its  famous  castle, 
charmed  with  the  fruitful,  intensely  cultivated  valley 
of  the  Neckar  and  amid  vine-clad  hills  we  spent  the 
summer  of  1868.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  restful  place. 
Each  day  furnished  us  some  new,  pleasant  and  instruct 
ive  experience  and  it  was  with  some  regret  that  in  the 
early  autumn  we  turned  our  backs  on  this  ancient 
historic  city  and  went  to  Berlin.  Here  for  four  or 
five  months  we  settled  down  and  together  studied 
German,  under  the  guidance  of  a  very  accomplished 
lady  teacher.  To  test  our  acquisition  of  the  language 
we  translated  into  English  a  pamphlet,  written  by  the 
German  Baptist  pastor  of  the  city,  giving  a  history 
of  his  church  and  setting  forth  its  pressing  financial 
needs.  He  used  our  translation  in  raising  money  in 
the  United  States  to  carry  forward  his  church  enter 
prise.  We  also  orally  translated  a  treatise  of  about 
sixty  pages  in  which  the  author  contended  that  Ger 
man  was  destined  to  become  the  universal  language, 
and  that  at  no  distant  day  Germany  would  politically 
dominate  the  whole  world.  We  heard  the  same 
notions  expressed  and  advocated  at  our  table.  And 
this  was  before  the  German  Empire  was  founded.  So 
what  we  hear  now  of  the  universal  prevalence  of 
German  "  kultur  "  is  hardly  new. 

The  current  of  our  life  was  now  divided  and  for 
three  or  four  months  flowed  in  two  channels.  I  met 
at  Berlin  some  American  students,  who  were  planning 
to  visit  Egypt,  Palestine  and  Syria,  and  they  urged 
me  to  accompany  them.  This,  at  first  blush,  I  decided 

208 


that  I  could  not  do.  It  would  be  akin  to  cruelty  to 
leave  Mary  alone  in  a  strange  land  to  care  for  our 
children,  while  I  made  such  an  enticing  trip.  But 
when  she  learned  of  the  invitation,  she  insisted  that 
I  must  accept  it;  that  probably  I  would  never  have 
another  such  opportunity.  I  finally  reluctantly 
yielded  to  her  wishes.  We  went  first  to  Dresden, 
where  she  and  the  children  were  established  in  comfort 
able  quarters.  When  they  had  become  wonted  to  their 
surroundings,  I  joined  the  party  from  Berlin  on  their 
way  to  the  Orient. 

This  self-forgetfulness  for  my  sake  strikingly  reveals 
Mary's  character.  From  the  day  of  our  betrothal  she 
was  always  laboring,  often  quite  regardless  of  her  own 
comfort,  to  enhance  my  happiness  and  usefulness.  I 
strove  to  pay  her  in  the  same  coin,  but  she  manifestly 
outstript  me. 

Within  ten  days  after  I  left  her  in  Dresden  our 
oldest  son  came  down  with  the  measles.  The  family 
that  kept  the  pension  were  unduly  frightened.  She 
had  instanter  to  seek  other  accommodations,  which  she 
speedily  found  to  her  own  advantage.  She  was  always 
resourceful  in  trying  exigencies.  When  this  flurry 
was  over  she  determined  to  get,  in  my  absence,  a  fair 
mastery  of  German.  She  bought  Liibke  on  Art,  read 
ten  pages  of  it  every  day  and  visited  the  Art  Gallery 
two  or  three  times  a  week  to  apply  to  the  paintings 
and  sculpture  there  the  principles  of  art  that  she  had 
learned.  So  while  she  was  acquiring  the  language 
she  was  at  the  same  time  enlarging  her  knowledge  of 

209 


art.  She  also  read  German  novels  and  employed 
a  German  nurse,  who  was  absolutely  ignorant  of 
English,  and  so  could  speak  with  her  only  in  German. 
When  I  returned  from  the  East  she  could  speak 
German  fluently.  Moreover,  indulging  her  propensity 
for  travel,  she  had  explored  the  beauties  of  Saxon 
Switzerland. 

After  nearly  four  months,  —  the  longest  period  of 
separation  from  each  other  during  our  married  life,  — 
I  returned  to  my  wife  and  children.  In  Athens  I 
parted  with  my  companions  in  travel.  They  went  to 
Constantinople,  I  to  Syracuse,  Sicily,  and  from  there 
up  through  Italy,  and  over  the  Alps  in  a  diligence  to 
Zurich.  There  I  met  Mary  and  our  little  ones,  who 
a  few  days  before  had  come  over  from  Dresden  to 
meet  me.  All  except  the  baby  were  quite  well.  Her 
stupid  nurse  had  fed  her  ham  and  she  nearly  died 
of  cholera  infantum,  but  was  now  happily  convales 
cent.  Our  cup  of  joy  overflowed.  Mary,  narrating 
her  experiences,  said  that  every  Monday  morning 
but  one  since  my  departure  she  received  a  letter  from 
me.  This  was  a  happy  but  strange  incident.  I  was 
going  farther  and  farther  from  Dresden,  making  no 
plan  to  have  my  missives  reach  her  at  any  given  time, 
but  He  who  determines  the  fall  of  a  sparrow  so  di 
rected  events  that  the  lonely  wife  and  mother  received, 
save  once,  a  letter  from  me  each  Monday  morning  for 
about  four  months. 

We  soon  went  over  to  Lucerne  and  to  neighboring 
cities  and  cantons.     Together  we  walked  to  the  top 

210 


of  Rigi  and,  before  reaching  the  summit,  were  caught 
in  a  snow-storm  which  made  walking  difficult,  es 
pecially  for  a  lady.  We  stayed  over  night  at  the  tip 
top  hotel,  that  in  the  morning  we  might  see  the  great 
snow-capped  mountains  flushed  and  gilded  with  the 
first  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  It  was  an  entrancing 
sight.  But  Mary  was  so  lame  from  the  previous  day's 
struggles  through  the  snow  that  she  had  to  be  carried 
down  the  mountain  on  a  litter.  But  she  greatly  en 
joyed  this  novel  experience. 

At  last  we  reluctantly  turned  our  backs  on  these 
scenes  of  mingled  beauty  and  sublimity  and  went 
westward  to  Berne,  Geneva,  Lyons  and  Paris  and 
northward  to  London  and  Liverpool,  stopping  for  a 
time  at  these  great  centres  of  life,  that  we  might 
learn  something  of  the  peculiarities  of  each,  and  then 
across  the  Atlantic  to  the  land  that  we  loved  above  all 
others.  We  reached  our  home  at  Newton  Centre, 
Massachusetts,  in  August,  1869. 

The  duties  laid  aside  about  sixteen  months  before, 
were  now  resumed.  My  health  was  fully  restored. 
Work  in  the  study,  the  classroom  and  the  pulpit,  was 
a  joy.  Our  old  house  with  its  surroundings,  on  the 
side  of  Institution  Hill,  was  a  constant  pleasure. 
Every  plant  in  the  garden,  every  tree,  shrub  and 
flower  in  the  yard  augmented  our  happiness.  The 
plumage  and  song  of  every  bird  in  the  leafy  grove 
hard  by  charmed  us.  Those  were  halcyon  days  for 
us  both. 

Mary  became  deeply  interested  in  the  theological 

211 


students,  and  whenever  opportunity  offered  gladly 
welcomed  them  to  our  house  and  table.  She  did  what 
she  could  to  prepare  the  wives  of  the  married  students 
for  their  future  responsibilities,  frequently  talking 
over  with  them  the  unique  opportunities  that  they 
would  have  to  do  good  and  to  make  effective  the 
labors  of  their  husbands.  She  also  resumed  her  writ 
ing  both  in  prose  and  verse.  Her  pen  was  more  pro 
lific  than  ever  before,  while  her  children  with  their 
unfolding  powers  of  body  and  mind  filled  her  with 
unspeakable  satisfaction. 

But  there  were  duties  beyond  her  own  home  and 
the  Theological  Institution  to  which  she  gave  herself. 
She  recognized  the  claims  of  the  kingdom  of  God  as 
supreme.  Always  profoundly  interested  in  missions 
she  now  worked  and  wrote  for  them  with  renewed  zeal. 
It  was  at  Newton  Centre  that  the  Woman's  American 
Baptist  Foreign  Mission  Society  was  formed  and  she 
was  one  of  its  constituent  members. 


VIII.     LIFE    IN  BROOKLYN,  CHICAGO, 
SALEM  AND   GRANVILLE 

BUT  to  her  lasting  regret,  her  varied  activities  at 
Newton  were  finally  interrupted.  There  sprang  up 
within  me  an  intense  longing  to  get  back  into  the 
pulpit  and  pastorate.  Three  fields  at  once  opened  to 
me,  Rochester,  Cambridge  and  Brooklyn.  I  decided 
for  Brooklyn  and  became  pastor  of  the  Strong  Place 

212 


Baptist  Church  of  that  city.  This  proved  to  have 
been  an  unfortunate  choice.  Not  that  the  post  was 
not  an  important  one;  I  spent  three  prosperous  years 
there.  During  that  brief  period  two  hundred  and 
seventy-two  were  added  to  the  church,  one  hundred 
and  thirty-three  by  letter  and  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
nine  by  baptism.  But  Mary  had  there  an  utter 
nervous  breakdown.  Some  occurrences  in  the  parish 
worried  her.  There  were  some  poor  in  the  church  for 
whose  comfort  and  betterment  she  assiduously 
worked;  this  she  greatly  enjoyed.  She  taught  the 
infant  class  in  the  Mission  Sunday  School,  was  gently 
but  persistently  pressed  into  taking  the  lead  in  some 
of  the  women's  benevolent  societies,  and  before  we 
apprehended  the  insidious  approach  of  danger,  she  had 
almost  fatally  overtaxed  herself.  We  now  learned  for 
the  first  time  that  the  air  of  the  ocean  had  greatly 
over-excited  her  nervous  system.  She  was  laid  help 
less  upon  her  bed.  We  almost  despaired  of  her  life. 
One  Sunday  morning,  to  my  great  surprise,  she  spoke 
only  German.  When  asked  why  she  did  so,  she  re 
plied  that  she  could  not  call  to  mind  any  English 
words.  In  alarm  I  summoned  my  physician,  who 
allayed  my  fears  by  saying  that  it  was  merely  a  symp 
tom  of  her  nervous  disease,  that  would  soon  pass 
away.  As  the  evening  approached  she  began  to  speak 
English  again.  But  the  physician  now  assured  me 
that  she  could  not  continue  to  live  in  Brooklyn,  that 
to  reside  there  much  longer  would  be  fatal  to  her.  I 
was  soon  called  to  the  Second  Baptist  Church  of 

213 


Chicago,  and  began  preaching  there  in  the  spring  of 
1876. 

In  the  meantime,  Mary  having  thrown  off  most 
of  her  usual  burdens,  had  partially  recovered  her 
strength  and  was  once  more  taking  the  oversight  and 
care  of  her  household.  After  spending  a  few  weeks 
in  a  quiet  retreat  on  the  Hudson,  she  started  West 
with  our  four  children,  stopping  a  few  days  for  further 
rest  and  recreation  with  relatives  in  LeRoy,  ^Western 
New  York.  She  then  went  on  with  our  children  to 
Marquette,  Michigan,  on  the  Southern  Shore  of  Lake 
Superior.  Leaving,  for  a  short  vacation,  my  new 
charge  at  Chicago,  I  joined  her  there.  She  was  happy 
amid  these  new  scenes.  She  was  already  learning  the 
limitations  of  her  bodily  strength  and,  when  she 
strictly  observed  them,  she  still  found  zest  in  living. 

But  her  nervous  collapse  in  Brooklyn  was  the  be 
ginning  of  a  new  and  marked  epoch  in  her  life.  For 
eleven  years  after  she  was  unable  to  hear  a  lecture  or 
sermon.  Occasionally  she  tried  to  sit  through  an 
ordinary  church  service,  but  before  she  had  listened 
to  the  preacher  ten  minutes  she  was  compelled  to  fly 
the  sanctuary.  She  said,  "  I  seem  to  be  unable  to  have 
a  man  talk  to  me  continuously."  While  she  deplored 
her  enforced  absence  from  public  worship,  she  declared, 
"  I  have  learned  from  experience  that  when  one 
cannot  attend  church,  it  is  quite  possible,  with  great 
personal  profit,  to  worship  God  at  home."  Yet  after 
her  death,  I  found  in  her  commonplace  book  a 
pathetic  song  from  her  pen  in  which  she  sorrowfully 

214 


expresses  a  keen  sense  of  her  great  loss  in  being  de 
prived  of  worshipping  on  Sundays  with  God's  people. 

"  Sweet  Sabbath  bells,  your  distant  voice 
Is  calling,  through  the  dewy  air, 
On  all   to  worship  and  rejoice, 
In  God's  own  house ;  for  He  is  there. 

"  Yet  I  alone  and  silent  bide, 
Far  from  the  courts  of  prayer  and  praise, 
I  hear  the  vespers  of  the  thrush 
Ring  clearly  through  the  evening  haze. 

"  Like  him  I  lonely  sing  to  God, 
From  the  dark  corner  where  I  dwell, 
And  He  who  hears  the  choir's  sweet  song 
Can  hear  my  faltering  voice  as  well. 

"  He  knows  that  with  a  thankful  heart 
My  offering  of  praise  I  bring, 
As  joining  with  the  warbling  thrush, 
'  Praise  God,  for  God  is  good,  I  sing.' " 

My  short  outing  on  the  shore  of  the  great  Lake 
was  too  soon  over.  I  returned  to  my  duties  in 
Chicago,  leaving  Mary  and  our  children  to  linger  a 
little  longer  in  the  bracing  atmosphere  of  the  North. 
When  their  vacation  was  over  they  took  a  steamer  for 
Chicago.  The  second  morning  after,  at  the  breakfast 
table,  glancing  at  my  newspaper,  I  read  that  the 
steamer  had  foundered  with  all  on  board.  I  hastened 
to  the  office  of  the  steamboat  company  and  found  the 
authorities  there  quite  confident  that  the  rumor  was 

215 


unfounded.  Still  with  feverish  anxiety  I  waited  for 
definite  news.  About  noon  Mary  telegraphed  me  that 
they  had  met  with  a  mishap  but  all  were  safe.  So  my 
half  day  of  agony  ended  in  great  gladness.  The  next 
day  we  all,  a  happy,  joyful  family,  entered  our  new 
Chicago  home.  The  open-hearted,  open-handed  mem 
bers  of  my  church  had  quite  unostentatiously  filled 
our  house  with  all  things  necessary  for  our  comfort. 
They  gave  us  a  warm,  hearty,  royal  welcome. 

On  December  24th  our  third  son  and  last  child  was 
born.  For  a  long  time  Mary's  vitality  was  at  a  low 
ebb.  Towards  spring,  while  slowly  gaining  strength 
she  began  to  ride  out,  first  around  only  one  square,  then 
around  two  or  more,  and  finally  to  the  nearest  parks, 
where  the  early  flowers  and  flowering  shrubs  were  just 
bursting  into  bloom,  and  the  birds,  that  had  just 
returned  from  the  sunny  south,  amid  leafing  branches 
were  pouring  forth  their  passionate  songs.  Such 
scenes  and  sounds  gave  her  great  delight,  inspired  her 
with  hope  and  invigorated  both  mind  and  body. 

During  Mary's  long  illness,  Aunt  Lizzie  Aiken,  the 
missionary  of  my  church,  often  came  in  to  cheer  her 
up.  In  all  that  she  said  and  did,  she  showed  such  tact, 
wit  and  wisdom  that  Mary  was  both  charmed  and 
captivated.  Her  comforter  was  a  rare  spirit,  keen  in 
intellect  and  unusually  rich  in  Christian  experience. 
Without  designing  to  do  so,  in  free,  informal  chit 
chats,  Aunt  Lizzie  gave  in  fragments  the  salient  points 
of  her  strangely  eventful  life.  Mary  was  so  deeply 
impressed  with  it  that  she  said  to  me,  "  Somebody 

216 


ought  to  write  and  publish  the  life  of  this  remarkable 
woman.  And  any  one  that  does  it  must  do  it  now 
before  Aunt  Lizzie  passes  away.  It  can  never  be 
written  after  her  death.  To  her  biographer  she  must 
tell  her  own  story." 

Very  soon  Mary  determined  to  write  it  herself. 
She  asked  her  physician  if  she  could  safely  undertake 
it.  At  first  he  shook  his  head,  but  noticing  how 
anxious  she  was  to  do  it,  he  decided  that  she  might 
attempt  it,  if  she  would  work  at  her  task  only  twenty 
minutes  a  day  and  at  the  end  of  the  allotted  time  would 
resolutely  lay  it  aside.  She  joyfully  accepted  these 
prescribed  conditions,  and,  entering  on  her  chosen 
work,  soon  proved  that  one  could  accomplish  much 
by  faithfully  working  but  twenty  minutes  in  every 
twenty-four  hours.  When  her  considerate  and  sym 
pathetic  physician  saw  that  she  was  rather  benefited 
than  injured  by  what  she  did,  he  doubled  the  time. 
Attentively  watching  his  patient,  he  soon  permitted 
her  to  write  an  hour  a  day  and  at  last  he  made  the 
time  an  hour  and  a  half.  On  this  last  allowance  of 
time,  she  triumphantly  finished  The  Story  of  Aunt 
Lizzie  Aiken.  No  one  who  reads  it  would  ever 
suspect  that  the  author  was  ill  when  she  wrote  it. 

Her  procedure  in  writing  it  adds  interest  to  it. 
Aunt  Lizzie  at  appointed  times  told  little  by  little  the 
whole  story  of  her  life,  while  Mary  closely  questioned 
her  that,  as  far  as  possible,  she  might  get  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  all  the  facts.  Of  these  conversations 
she  took  copious  notes.  Moreover,  for  some  years, 

217 


Aunt  Lizzie  had  kept  a  diary  in  which  was  a  fairly 
full  record  of  her  manifold  experiences  with  her  com 
ments  on  them.  This  she  put  into  Mary's  hand 
together  with  many  letters  that  she  had  received  from 
those  who  had  intimate  knowledge  of  her  varied 
activities.  Mary  also  corresponded  with  many  who, 
in  past  years,  had  been  conversant  with  the  labors 
of  Aunt  Lizzie.  By  this  correspondence  she  verified, 
corrected  and  elucidated  what  Aunt  Lizzie  had  related. 
Having  at  last  all  the  evidence  before  her  she  carefully 
analyzed  and  sifted  it  that  she  might  get  at  the  exact 
truth. 

She  now  began  to  write  out  the  unique  story  of  this 
marvellous  Christian  worker.  We  have  already 
noticed  the  difficulties  that  she  pluckily  overcame  in 
completing  it.  She  sent  the  manuscript  to  Jansen  and 
McClurg  of  Chicago,  who  at  once  accepted  it  but  in 
sisted  that  she  should  cut  it  down  one-fourth.  This 
was  a  rigorous  exaction  on  a  sick  woman  but  she 
uttered  no  protest.  What  the  publishers  asked  was 
soon  done,  but  to  the  detriment  of  the  book,  since 
in  its  condensation  much  of  the  most  interesting 
illustrative  material  was  cut  out.  It  however  proved 
to  be  a  good  seller.  But  the  author  refused  to  receive 
any  royalty  from  it.  She  said  that  she  wrote  it 
simply  to  help  Aunt  Lizzie.  One  hundred  and  ten 
dollars  from  it  came  into  her  hand.  This  she  turned 
over  to  the  Foreign  Mission  Society  as  the  gift  of  Aunt 
Lizzie. 

The  first  edition  was  soon  exhausted.     Then  Miss 

218 


Ellen  Sprague,  a  close  friend  of  both  Mary  and  Aunt 
Lizzie,  bought  the  plates  and,  with  the  full  approval 
of  all  parties  interested,  proceeded  to  issue  the  book 
as  her  own  private  enterprise.  Her  laudable  object 
was  to  accumulate  by  the  sale  of  the  book  a  fund  for 
Aunt  Lizzie,  who  in  caring  for  the  poor  could  never 
keep  any  money,  but  generously,  without  a  thought 
for  herself,  gave  away  all  that  she  had.  Miss  Sprague 
was  a  shrewd,  enterprising  business  woman,  and  was 
largely  successful  in  her  venture.  When  Aunt  Lizzie 
died  she  had  three  thousand  dollars  which  came  from 
the  sale  of  her  biography.  This  entire  sum  she  left 
by  will  to  the  Second  Baptist  Church  of  Chicago,  that 
ardently  loved  and  greatly  honored  her,  and  which 
for  many  years  she  had  served  with  rare  fidelity  and 
unusual  efficiency. 

The  recipients  of  this  bequest,  I  am  sure,  will  ever 
gratefully  remember  Aunt  Lizzie  Aiken,  Mary  Eleanor 
Anderson  and  Ellen  Sprague.  Through  their  united 
service  they  created  this  fund.  Neither  of  them  alone 
did  this.  It  was  achieved  by  three  loving  hearts, 
each  one  of  whom,  forgetful  of  self,  sought  to  serve 
others. 

Mary  at  last  so  far  recovered  her  health  that  she 
enjoyed  doing  her  ordinary  duties.  She  efficiently 
directed  her  household.  She  gloried  in  her  children. 
Like  the  Roman  Cornelia  she  regarded  them  as  her 
jewels.  She  made  home  attractive  for  them  and  care 
fully  watched  over  the  development  of  their  bodies, 
minds  and  hearts.  She  wielded  over  them  a  queenly 

219 


authority  to  which  they  yielded  without  being  con 
scious  of  any  restraint.  She  swayed  and  controlled 
them  with  the  mightiest  of  all  influences,  the  effective 
and  delightful  influence  of  love.  She  entered  with 
zest  into,  and  helped  them  in,  all  their  healthful, 
innocent  sports.  She  led  them  to  read  books  that 
interested  and  delighted  them,  and  told  them  Bible 
stories.  In  this  she  was  an  expert.  She  knew  what 
the  stories  meant  and  had  the  imaginative  power  to 
narrate  them  vividly.  She  selected  books  for  them 
that  fascinated  them  with  biblical  biography  and 
history  and  so  implanted  deep  in  their  minds  and 
hearts  a  love  for  the  Bible.  She  did  but  little  work 
outside  her  own  home  during  my  pastorate  in 
Chicago.  Still,  while  unable  even  to  attend  the  meet 
ings  of  the  church,  she  had  the  liveliest  interest 
in  all  that  it  was  doing  for  the  advancement  of  the 
Kingdom  of  God  both  at  home  and  abroad.  For 
this  she  prayed  and  gave  and  wrote. 

After  a  pastorate  of  two  years,  as  delightful  as 
ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  any  preacher,  I  was  called  to  the 
presidency  of  the  University  of  Chicago  —  now 
styled  the  Old  University  —  and  accepted  the 
position.  We  left  our  home  on  the  west  side  of 
Chicago,  removing  to  Kenwood,  Hyde  Park,  where 
we  first  occupied  a  large,  rambling  brick  house  on 
Greenwood  Avenue,  near  Forty-seventh  Street.  The 
house  was  airy  and  cool  in  summer,  but  shivering  cold 
in  the  winter.  To  add  to  our  distress  we  found  our 
selves  in  financial  straits.  Some  gentlemen  who 

220 


promised  to  see  that  my  salary  was  paid  evidently 
forgot  the  verbal  contract  that  they  had  made,  and  so 
I  had  a  plenty  of  hard  work  but  "  short  commons." 
Among  Mary's  notes  I  find  this  naive  testimony  to 
our  financial  pinch.  She  says,  "  One  time  when  I  had 
absolutely  nothing  to  give  to  our  woman's  missionary 
work,  a  little  story  that  I  sent  to  the  St.  Nicholas, 
brought  me  a  return  of  twenty-five  dollars;  a  part  of 
this  I  spent  for  necessary  clothes  for  my  little  girls 
and  had  enough  for  my  yearly  donation  —  so  we  were 
helped  along."  Soon  after  she  was  surprised  to  learn 
that  her  Uncle  Gardner  Colby  had  left  her  by  will  an 
annuity  of  two  hundred  dollars.  It  was  a  great  and 
wholly  unexpected  kindness  that  thereafter  tided  her 
over  many  a  financial  strait  and  filled  her  heart  with 
gratitude  to  her.  generous  benefactor. 

In  1 88 1  her  father  rented  an  estate  on  Shrewsbury 
River,  N.  J.,  not  far  from  Red  Bank.  He  renovated 
the  house  and  refurnished  it,  put  into  the  barn  a 
comfortable  family  carriage  and  a  span  of  fine  horses, 
cleaned  up  the  grounds  and  made  the  place  very  at 
tractive  and  homelike.  He  invited  Mary  and  her 
family  to  spend  the  summer  with  him.  With  great 
gladness  she  responded  to  his  warm  and  urgent  in 
vitation,  and  before  the  Commencement  of  the  Uni 
versity  went  to  him  in  New  Jersey.  He  was  of  course 
very  happy  to  have  his  only  daughter  once  more  under 
his  roof  and  at  his  table,  especially  since  she  came  with 
her  five  children.  He  celebrated  the  Fourth  of  July 
with  feasting  and  elaborate  fireworks.  But  his 

221 


expectation  of  a  season  of  social  enjoyment  with  his 
daughter  and  her  family  came  to  a  sad  and  sudden 
end.  Having  months  before  suffered  a  slight  attack 
of  paralysis,  from  which  he  seemed  in  large  measure  to 
have  recovered,  it  slowly  and  insidiously  crept  upon 
him  once  more.  He  became  restless  and  sleepless  and 
five  or  six  days  after  the  festivities  of  the  glorious 
Fourth,  with  those  around  him  whom  he  most  loved, 
he  passed  away.  This  was  a  crisis  in  Mary's  life. 
She  had  not  been  called  to  pass  through  a  trial  so 
great  and  bitter  since  she  had  grown  up  to  girlhood 
and  womanhood.  But  her  grief  was  assuaged  by  her 
Christian  resignation.  She  had  anticipated  great  joy 
in  spending  two  or  three  months  with  her  father; 
for  a  few  days  that  joy  was  hers,  but  it  quickly  ended 
in  tears.  Still  she  was  able  to  say  through  her  tears, 
not  as  I  will  but  as  Thou  wilt. 

She  very  tenderly  loved  her  father,  still  she  quite 
clearly  understood  his  character,  both  its  excellences 
and  its  defects,  and  has  left  an  appreciative  and  just 
estimate  of  him.  She  says,  "  My  father  was  a  man 
of  lively  affections,  much  beloved  by  many  friends 
and  his  kindred,  always  sympathetic  and  of  a  generous 
nature,  ready  to  believe  in  every  new  business  enter 
prise  offered  to  him,  too  optimistic  in  spite  of  his 
many  failures;  though  to  be  sure,  he  made  and  lost 
more  than  one  fortune.  To  me  he  was  mother  as  well 
as  father.  We  knew  and  trusted  each  other  in  perfect 
love.  He  carried,  through  a  life  of  many  changes  and 
great  sorrows,  the  light  of  a  spiritual  faith  with  a 

222 


steady  hand.  He  always  conducted  family  prayers 
and  asked  a  blessing  on  our  meals.  He  taught  us 
from  the  Bible  Sunday  afternoons  regularly  and  was 
deeply  anxious  for  our  conversion.  While  far  from 
what  is  called  Puritanical  in  either  his  early  training 
or  his  own  ideas,  he  believed  profoundly  the  truths 
of  the  Christian  religion,  and,  social  as  he  was  by 
nature,  lived  the  pure,  upright  life  of  a  child  of  God. 
Such  men  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  They  make  no 
'pretensions  to  sanctity,  they  are  the  life  of  any  circle 
to  which  they  belong,  but  they  keep  themselves  from 
the  evil  of  the  world  and  are  a  blessing  to  their 
families  and  their  country." 

By  means  which  her  father  left  to  Mary  we  finally 
built  a  good  house  at  Fiftieth  Street  and  Greenwood 
Avenue.  Here  our  family  life  was  all  that  heart 
could  wish.  As  to  activities  outside  the  household, 
for  nearly  eight  years  we  toiled  unremittingly  to  free 
from  debt  and  build  up  an  unendowed  university  that 
seemed  to  have  but  few  friends.  The  debts  were  an 
inheritance  into  which  I  came,  having  been  unwisely 
contracted  during  the  administrations  of  my  prede 
cessors  in  office.  The  floating  debts,  amounting  to 
more  than  thirty  thousand  dollars,  were  paid,  but  the 
mortgage  debt  of  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
we  failed  to  cancel. 

During  this  time  of  stress,  Mary  gave  herself  mainly 
to  the  education  of  our  children,  all  of  whom  were  in 
school  of  one  grade  or  another.  So  far  as  she  was 
able  she  entered  with  delight  into  the  subjects  they 

223 


were  called  upon  to  master  arid  in  their  linguistic 
studies  often  lent  a  helping  hand.  At  times  she  enter 
tained  in  our  home  both  the  faculty  and  students 
of  the  University,  always  eager  to  do  what  she  could 
to  promote  and  enrich  their  social  life.  As  a  bur 
lesque  on  a  Greek  letter  fraternity,  a  band  of  students 
organized  the  "  Eta  Pi  Society."  Perhaps  their  main 
object  was  not  simply  to  eat,  but  at  times  they  met 
to  feast  on  pies.  Mary  caught  the  spirit  of  their 
innocent  fun  and  sometimes  for  their  delectation  sent 
them  from  her  own  kitchen  pies  of  various  kinds  and 
shapes.  Once  under  her  own  roof  she  gave  them  eight 
courses  of  different  kinds  of  pie.  From  public  func 
tions,  both  on  account  of  unsteady  nerves  and  natural 
modesty,  she  instinctively  shrank;  still,  when  the 
annual  receptions  of  the  University  were  held,  she 
bore  her  part  in  that  unconventional,  graceful  manner, 
which  is  the  natural  effluence  of  genuine  culture. 

For  a  few  months  in  1885  and  1886,  I  served,  as 
pastor,  the  First  Baptist  Church  of  Salem,  Massa 
chusetts.  But  as  that  quaint  old  city  sits  hard  by 
the  ocean,  Mary's  experience  in  Brooklyn  was  to  a 
considerable  degree  repeated.  Her  nerves  were  over 
excited  by  the  sea  air.  Her  whole  history,  while  in 
that  historical  city  of  Roger  Williams  and  the  witches 
can  be  written  in  three  words:  she  was  sick.  Much 
of  the  time  she  was  under  the  watchful  care  of  a 
physician.  In  the  summer  of  1886,  we  carried  her 
to  the  cars  and  took  her  up  to  New  London,  New 
Hampshire.  A  few  hours  after  drinking  in  the  moun- 

224 


tain  air  her  depression  of  spirit  was  gone,  her  nerves 
calmed  and  she  began  to  ramble  with  pleasure  among 
the  hills.  It  now  became  clear  that  she  could  not 
continue  to  live  in  Salem. 

The  first  of  January,  1887,  I  became  president  of 
Denison  University  and  we  set  up  housekeeping  at 
Granville,  Ohio.  Mary's  health  had  greatly  improved 
and  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  hills  and  fertile 
valleys  of  Licking  County.  To  help  on  her  return 
ing  vigor,  during  the  pleasant  days  of  summer  and 
autumn,  she  took  long  top-buggy  rides  with  me  after 
a  gentle  but  spirited  horse.  The  beauty  of  the  land 
scape,  the  trees,  the  flowers  delighted  her. 

Before  our  house,  on  the  hillside,  was  a  large  yard, 
where  she  cultivated  blooming  shrubs,  roses,  crocuses, 
hyacinths  and  other  common  flowers.  She  could  never 
forget  seeing  from  her  window,  in  early  spring,  a 
green,  unsophisticated  student,  from  "  Ole  Virginny," 
he  said,  get  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  fondly 
kiss  some  crocuses  that  had  just  pushed  their  fresh, 
bright  faces  up  through  the  soil.  At  the  side  of  the 
house  was  a  large  garden,  where  grew  plentifully  vege 
tables,  small  fruits,  peaches  and  apples.  To  furnish 
sweet  butter  for  our  table,  rich  cream  for  our  straw 
berries,  raspberries  and  peaches  and  ice  cream  to  cool 
our  tongues  in  hot  days,  a  fawn-like  Jersey  cow 
grazed  in  a  pasture  hard  by.  But  Mary's  activities 
as  usual  reached  out  beyond  her  own  home.  She 
planted  ivy  by  the  bare  brick  walls  of  the  main  col 
lege  building  and  sedulously  cared  for  it,  hoping  that 

225 


at  no  distant  day  it  might  in  summer  hide  their  ugli 
ness  with  a  mantle  of  green.  She  made  flower  beds 
in  front  of  the  college  buildings  to  render  the  campus 
more  attractive  and  to  give  at  least  a  hint  of  the 
importance  of  esthetic  culture.  She  often  generously 
entertained  the  students  of  the  college  and  at  times 
many  of  the  church  and  people  of  the  village.  More 
over  she  joined  hands  with  the  Baptist  women  of  the 
State,  working  heart  and  soul  with  them  for  the  ad 
vancement  of  missions  both  domestic  and  foreign. 

But  our  stay  in  Granville  was  only  three  years.  I 
left  that  excellent  school  wholly  of  my  own  choice. 
I  naturally  drifted  back  to  Chicago  with  its  larger 
life,  where  I  had  so  long  worked,  and  took  the  chair 
of  Homiletics,  Church  Polity  and  Pastoral  Duties,  in 
the  Baptist  Union  Theological  Seminary  at  Morgan 
Park.  Here  we  built  a  house  and,  as  a  recreative 
aside,  cultivated  flowers,  making  roses  a  specialty.  In 
this  Mary  took  a  leading  part  and  our  success  was 
unexpectedly  great. 

Barely  two  years  passed  by  when  our  Theological 
Seminary  became  the  Divinity  School  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Chicago.  Since  we  could  not,  like  a  snail, 
take  our  house  with  us,  we  continued  to  live  at  Mor 
gan  Park,  and  each  day  I  made  quite  a  journey  to 
reach  my  classroom,  utilizing  the  time  while  going 
in  furbishing  the  lecture  I  was  about  to  deliver.  At 
last  we  abandoned  our  rural  home  with  its  trees  and 
blossoming  shrubs  and  fragrant  roses,  and  lived  in 
the  city,  cooped  up  in  some  hotel  with  its  monotonous 

226 


and  tasteless  meals,  or  in  some  apartment,  whose 
front  windows  looked  out  on  a  paved  street,  and  whose 
rear  windows  revealed  our  own  and  our  neighbor's 
back  yards  with  their  trumpery  and  variegated  clothes 
horses.  While  work  in  the  University  absorbed  and 
delighted  me,  Mary  revelled  in  books,  wrote  to  help 
on  philanthropies  and  missions  and  dreamed  of  fields 
and  groves  and  flowers  and  longed  for  the  coming 
of  my  vacation.  If  it  came  in  the  winter,  we  usually 
sought  rest  in  the  sunny  South  or  amid  ever-bloom 
ing  flowers  in  Southern  California. 

IX.     RETIREMENT   IN   NEW   ENGLAND 

AFTER  twelve  years  of  service  I  laid  down  the  active 
duties  of  my  professorship  in  the  University,  under 
a  rule  of  administration,  just  then  adopted,  that  all 
professors  must  be  retired  at  seventy.  I  was  how 
ever  seventy-one,  and  in  perfect  health,  doing  the  best 
work  of  my  life.  I  was  made  professor  Emeritus,  — 
a  barren  honor!  — and  was  at  liberty  to  go  where  I 
pleased.  So,  since  both  of  us  were  specially  fond  of 
the  hills  and  mountains  and  society  of  New  England, 
we  determined  to  make  our  future  home  there.  But 
while  Newton  Centre,  Massachusetts,  became  our 
political  domicile,  we  spent  some  of  our  winters  in 
Washington  or  Florida  or  California,  and,  for  several 
years,  our  summers  in  New  Hampshire.  Mary  bought 
a  very  pleasant  house  in  New  Hampton.  She  revelled 
in  its  gardens  of  flowers  and  vegetables,  its  umbra- 

227 


geous  grove  of  oak,  ash  and  maple  and  its  abundant 
small  fruits  and  apples.  The  amphitheater  of  verdant 
hills  and  wooded  mountains  were  an  unceasing  pleas 
ure,  while  the  plain  but  cozy  library  room,  with  its 
open  fire  on  chilly  rainy  days,  was  an  alluring  re 
treat.  She  was  thrice  happy  in  welcoming  her  chil 
dren  and  grandchildren  under  our  roof;  but  as  it  was 
extremely  difficult  to  secure  help  in  the  kitchen,  she 
at  last,  finding  the  very  hospitality  that  she  so 
greatly  enjoyed  too  great  a  burden  for  her  sensitive 
nerves,  sold  the  place  that  she  had  greatly  improved 
and  so  keenly  enjoyed. 

Beginning  in  1909,  we  spent  five  summers  on  Bear 
Island,  one  of  the  larger  of  the  numerous  islands  of 
Lake  Winnepesaukee,  one  season  in  the  hotel  there, 
four  in  a  rustic  cottage  hard  by  the  Lake.  Each 
summer  I  carried  to  that  quaint,  unplastered  house, 
with  its  cheerful  fireplace,  an  armful  of  the  newest 
and  best  books  and  together  we  feasted  upon  them. 
It  was  a  free  and  easy  and  restful  nook.  Bush  and 
blossom  and  berry  and  bird  enticed  us.  The  moun 
tain  scenery  about  us  was  a  constant  inspiration. 
Often  the  evening  skies  flamed  with  gorgeous  sunsets. 
At  night,  when  the  heavens  were  cloudless,  the  re 
flected  light  of  the  moon  or  stars  stretched  in  broad 
bands  of  rippling  silver  across  the  Lake.  The  laps 
ing  waters  on  the  shore  lulled  us  to  slumber.  It 
was  a  sort  of  earthly  paradise.  The  joys  of  litera 
ture  and  religion  within,  the  wonderful  revelations  of 
God  through  His  works  without. 

228 


During  the  period  from  1904  to  1915,  I  gave  to 
the  press  five  books.  Into  all  my  labor  in  writing 
them  Mary  entered  with  the  deepest  interest.  Her 
counsel  was  invaluable.  She  was  a  sane,  sharp,  sug 
gestive  critic. 

In  1911  our  Golden  Wedding  was  celebrated.  It 
fell  on  Sunday,  the  23rd  of  April.  To  avoid  all  possi 
ble  offence  our  children  decided  to  observe  it  on  the 
22nd  and  the  24th.  The  family  was  then  unbroken. 
While  some  of  the  five  children  lived  in  Chicago  and 
some  in  New  England,  they  all  came  to  share  in  this 
consummation  of  a  long  and  happy  married  life. 

The  Golden  Wedding  celebration  was  held  April 
22nd  at  the  house  of  our  second  son,  Elbridge  R. 
Anderson,  on  Main  Street,  Wenham,  Massachusetts. 
Here  in  the  afternoon,  an  elegant  buffet  luncheon  was 
served  and  an  admirable  group  picture  of  the  entire 
household  was  taken.  Speeches  were  made  by  the 
different  members  of  the  family  and  a  beautiful  orig 
inal  poem  was  read  by  our  older  daughter,  Mrs.  Lucy 
C.  Owen,  and  our  oldest  son,  Professor  Frederick 
L.  Anderson,  read  Sidney  Lanier's  The  Golden  Wed 
ding.  Letters  and  telegrams  were  sent  to  us  by  ab 
sent  friends,  also  some  presents  and  flowers.  Among 
the  latter  were  twelve  fragrant  roses  from  Mrs.  Sophie 
Burns,  who  was  Mary's  bridesmaid.  Both  bride  and 
bridesmaid,  after  fifty  eventful  years,  were  still  well 
and  happy  and  the  one  was  greeting  the  other  with 
fragrant  flowers. 

On  the  24th  the  Golden  Wedding  Reception  was 

229 


held  at  the  house  of  our  oldest  son,  169  Homer  Street, 
Newton  Centre.  Here,  besides  our  own  immediate 
family,  many  relatives  and  old  friends,  with  whom  in 
the  church  and  in  institutions  of  learning  we  had  been 
in  former  years  associated,  personally  greeted  us.  To 
see  all  our  children  together  once  more,  accompanied 
by  some  of  our  grandchildren,  and  to  receive  con 
gratulatory  missives  from  those  that  were  absent  was 
no  common  joy.  It  gave  us  both  a  new  grip  on  life. 


X.     MARY'S   LITERARY   WORK 

BUT  our  sketch  of  Mary's  career  would  be  quite 
incomplete  if  I  should  fail  to  call  especial  attention 
to  her  preeminent  activity.  During  her  entire  married 
life  she  was  always  busy  with  her  pen.  She  did  not 
however  write  merely  for  the  sake  of  writing.  She 
never  seemed  to  be  in  the  least  ambitious  for  literary 
distinction,  but  always  wrote  with  some  important 
practical  end  in  view. 

She  was,  as  we  have  already  seen,  intensely  in 
terested  in  missions.  For  several  years,  both  while 
in  Chicago  and  in  Newton,  her  contributions,  both 
prose  and  poetry,  so  constantly  appeared  in  the 
columns  of  The  Helping  Hand,  that  many  of  its  read 
ers  thought  she  was  on  the  editorial  staff.  The  sum 
total  of  her  articles  in  this  mission  paper  would  make 
a  good-sized  volume.  She  also  contributed  to  The 
King's  Messengers  to  Heathen  Lands  a  series  of  six 

230 


articles,  which  fascinatingly  set  forth  the  remarkable 
career  of  a  Shan  boy,  I  Tway.  She  did  this  espe 
cially  to  awaken  the  interest  of  the  young  in  foreign 
missions. 

To  implant  in  the  hearts  of  the  children  of  our 
churches  a  love  for  the  heathen  and  to  stimulate  them 
to  give  and  work  for  their  salvation,  she  wrote  dia 
logues  presenting  both  to  the  ear  and  the  eye  the 
doctrines  and  customs  of  heathen  lands.  The  chil 
dren,  when  reciting  one  of  these  dialogues,  were 
dressed  in  the  costumes  of  the  country  represented. 
Copies  of  the  dialogues  were  multiplied,  so  that  they 
were  repeated  in  many  different  churches.  A  mission 
ary  from  Burma,  listening  to  one  that  set  forth  the 
notions  and  customs  of  that  country,  said,  "  She  has 
lived  there,  has  she  not?  "  Of  course  she  had  not, 
but  she  had  diligently  studied  the  society  and  scenery 
of  the  lands  where  our  missions  are  planted,  and  hav 
ing  a  vivid  historical  imagination,  she  was  able  truth 
fully  to  set  forth  not  only  their  religious  teachings 
but  also  faithfully  to  depict  their  daily  life.  She 
sometimes  said  to  me,  "  I  have  an  ardent  longing  to 
sail  up  the  Irawadi  River.  I  know  just  how  it  looks 
and  I  know  all  the  principal  towns  and  cities  on  its 
banks.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  see  it  and  them." 

She  was  also  deeply  interested  in  Home  Missions. 
Before  me  lie  six  tracts  of  hers,  published  by  the 
Woman's  American  Baptist  Home  Mission  Society  of 
Chicago.  One  of  them,  general  in  its  character,  is  on 
The  Religious  Condition  of  Children  in  the  United 

231 


States;  the  remaining  five,  more  specific,  are  on  the 
condition  of  Mormon  children,  of  Chinese  children,  of 
immigrant  children,  of  colored  children  and  of  Indian 
children  in  this  country.  These  tracts  present,  for 
popular  effect,  the  main  facts  in  each  case  in  a  clear, 
simple,  forceful  style.  She  also  left  a  paper  on  Mor- 
monism,  read  before  the  Home  Mission  Circles  of  the 
different  evangelical  denominations  of  Newton  Centre, 
Massachusetts.  It  is  a  strong,  incisive  essay,  grasping 
and  clearly  unfolding  the  innermost  principles  of  that 
corrupt  and  corrupting  apostacy. 

When  caring  for  her  children,  like  any  fond  mother, 
she  sang  to  them,  not  often  the  ordinary  nursery  lulla 
bies,  but  she  composed  cradle  songs  as  she  crooned 
her  darling  infants  to  sleep.  At  last  I  said  to  her, 
"  Those  lullabies  are  so  good,  you  better  write  them 
down  and  preserve  them."  She  acted  on  the  hint 
and  the  final  outcome  was  the  volume,  New  Songs 
for  Little  People,  published  by  Lee  and  Shepard,  Bos- 
tion,  1874,  and  illustrated  by  Lizzie  B.  Humphrey. 
It  sold  well.  The  royalty  that  came  from  it  was  a 
great  happiness  to  the  author.  The  consciousness  of 
possessing  money  coined  out  of  her  nursery  ditties  was 
a  new  and  exceedingly  gratifying  experience.  The 
publishers  finally  purchased  her  rights  in  the  book 
and  continued  to  issue  it  in  conjunction  with  other 
poems.  Sixteen  of  these  songs,  with  her  consent,  were 
incorporated  in  The  Normal  Music  Course  by  Tufts 
and  Holt,  seven  in  the  First  Reader,  nine  in  the  Sec- 


ond  Reader,  prepared  for  the  use  of  the  public 
schools. 

She  also  wrote  extensively  for  the  religious  jour 
nals.  In  The  Christian  Times,  now  The  Standard,  she 
discussed  with  freshness  and  vigor  Sunday  School 
songs,  Sunday  School  literature  and  the  importance 
of  taking  children  to  church.  She  not  only  pointed 
out  glaring  defects  in  the  selection  of  songs  and  books 
for  the  children,  but  suggested  the  remedies  for  them. 
She  also  wrote  a  series  of  articles  for  The  Standard, 
under  the  caption,  Half  Hours  with  Aunt  Anna,  in 
structing  young  girls  how  to  care  for  their  rooms,  their 
bodies,  minds  and  hearts  and  how  to  regard  and  treat 
their  parents. 

When  Dr.  Bright  was  the  editor  of  The  Examiner 
and  Chronicle,  for  a  long  time  she  was  a  regular  con 
tributor  to  its  columns,  one  of  his  favorite  correspond 
ents.  She  first  wrote  a  series  of  letters  over  the 
pseudonym,  Dorothy  Doe.  They  were  addressed  to 
Dick,  her  supposed  son,  who  was  about  to  enter  the 
ministry.  She  discussed  in  these  letters  important 
practical  questions  pertaining  to  the  Christian  life, 
such  as  the  conduct  of  church  members,  lazy  Chris 
tians,  what  sermons  should  be  in  thought  and  style 
and  how  they  should  be  delivered  if  the  preacher 
would  interest  and  stir  up  those  in  the  pews. 

These  articles  were  very  popular,  but  a  prominent 
pastor,  sharply  dissenting  from  some  of  her  views  on 
preaching,  tartly  replied  to  her  and  declared  that  her 
masquerading  as  a  woman  was  to  any  one  with  eyes 

233 


an  obvious  sham.  He  called  upon  her  to  throw  off 
her  disguise  and  come  out  into  the  open.  He,  how 
ever,  soon  found  out  his  awkward  mistake,  when  she, 
bubbling  over  with  mirth,  punctured  his  hostile  stric 
tures  and  declared  that  if  he  had  anything  further  to 
say  she  would  gladly  waive  a  woman's  privilege  of 
having  the  last  word. 

For  the  same  journal  she  wrote  a  captivating  ac 
count  of  What  Two  Small  Boys  Saw  in  Europe.  This 
was  for  the  entertainment  and  instruction  of  children. 
Among  other  things,  she  drew  a  vivid  picture  of  what 
the  people  in  the  larger  German  cities  do  at  Christ 
mas  time.  She  painted  to  the  life  their  great  bazars, 
their  vast  stores  of  toys,  and  praised  their  enchanting 
music. 

For  a  whole  year,  while  she  was  in  Europe,  she  was 
a  regular  correspondent  of  The  Christian  Era  of  Bos 
ton.  Her  letters  from  Berlin,  Dresden  and  Switzer 
land,  were  full  of  important  information  and  suggest 
ive  criticism.  And  these  references  indicate  but  a 
part  of  her  journalistic  activities. 

She  delighted  at  times  to  try  her  hand  on  more 
difficult  literary  tasks.  She  left  a  charmingly  written 
essay  on  Chrysostom's  Last  Days;  also  a  translation 
of  Theremin's  discussion  of  What  is  the  best  Sermon? 
in  which  he  maintains  that  that  sermon  is  best  which 
pleases  God  best.  There  also  lies  before  me  her  dis 
sertation  on  the  oldest  Christian  hymn,  by  Clement 
of  Alexandria,  followed  by  her  translation  of  it  from 


234 


the  Greek.  And  here  is  also  her  translation  of  Ber 
nard's  Salve  Caput  Crucntatum,  having  the  same  num 
ber  of  syllables  as  the  original.  It  is  not  only  a  faith 
ful  translation  but  it  reflects  the  free,  vigorous  poetical 
movement  of  the  Latin  hymn. 

Moreover,  she  was  a  facile  letter  writer.  In  her 
ordinary  epistles,  dashed  off  with  great  rapidity,  she 
expressed  her  thought  with  artless  naturalness  and 
great  lucidity.  When  her  children  were  all  married, 
when  all  the  five  birds  had  flown  from  the  parental 
nest,  and  mated,  she  felt  it  to  be  one  of  her  missions 
in  life  to  keep  them  closely  united  in  love  with  one 
another  and  with  us  by  frequent  missives  from  her 
warm,  motherly  heart.  Every  week  she  wrote  them 
all.  She  accomplished  her  purpose.  It  was  an  added 
triumph  of  love.  She  constantly  bore  them  all  in  her 
great  throbbing  heart  and  they,  in  turn,  lavished  on 
her  their  tenderest  affection.  They  all  outlived  her 
and  before  her  departure  she  had  the  joy  of  seeing 
them  come  to  honor. 

So  far  as  her  strength  permitted  she  also  corre 
sponded  with  her  grandchildren,  twelve  in  number. 
In  her  letters  to  them  she  sometimes  broke  out  into 
song.  It  was  only  a  simple  and  natural  outpouring 
of  her  heart,  designed  for  no  eye  but  that  of  the  one 
to  whom  she  wrote.  But  the  following  is  in  a  letter 
written  to  her  oldest  granddaughter,  when  eight  years 
of  age,  the  quoting  of  which  the  grandmother  might 
excuse. 


235 


"Life  is  a  tree,  dear  child, 
Love  is  its  flower, 
Needing  the  sunny  light, 
Needing  the  shower. 

"  So,  like  a  summer  rose, 
Do  not  complain, 
Welcome   the  cloudless   days, 
Welcome  the  rain." 

We  have  already  noticed  her  student  life  at  Hudson 
Female  Academy.  Very  few  at  that  time  thought 
that  girls  were  able  to  master  a  college  course  of 
study,  but  she  made  the  most  of  such  opportunities 
as  she  had  in  that  school  for  girls  and  after  her 
graduation  manifested  a  marked  aptitude  for  teaching. 
This  was  made  clear  from  her  unusual  success  in  in 
teresting  her  Sunday  School  classes  in  their  Bible 
lessons  and  in  the  drill  that  she  gave  her  own  children 
in  the  studies  that  they  pursued  both  in  the  public 
school  and  in  college.  In  view  of  what  she  did  in 
coaching  them  she  used  playfully  to  say  that  she 
richly  deserved  an  A.  B.  from  some  reputable  institu 
tion  of  learning. 

.  She  had  also  an  insatiable  passion  for  reading.  She 
devoured  all  sorts  of  good  books,  historical,  literary 
and  scientific.  What  she  read  she  mastered  and  re 
tained.  The  knowledge  thus  acquired  was  in  her 
mind  clearly  classified  and  always  ready  for  service 
on  call.  She  read  not  only  English  books  but  French 
and  German  with  facility  and  pleasure.  During  our 
married  life  we  read  together  all  of  Chaucer,  Spenser, 

236 


Shakespeare,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson  and  most  of 
modern  English  and  American  poetry.  Advancing  age 
did  not  dull  her  zest  for  reading  and  study.  Amid 
the  enchanting  scenery  of  New  Hampshire,  she  be 
came  more  than  three  score  and  ten,  but  she  was  still 
a  keen  observer  and  an  eager  learner.  With  open 
mind  and  heart  she  was  still  drinking  in  new  thought 
and  newly  discovered  truth.  She  continued  to  grow 
in  intellectual  strength  and  spiritual  power  to  the  last 
day  of  her  earthly  life. 


XI.     HER  TRAITS  OF  MIND  AND  HEART 

IN  what  I  have  already  written  the  qualities  of  her 
mind  and  heart  have  been  incidentally  set  forth.  One 
thing  is  at  once  obvious,  she  had  a  thoroughly  disci 
plined  mind.  She  had  the  power  and  habit  of  clear, 
orderly  thinking.  Straight  as  an  arrow  she  went 
by  keen  analysis  to  the  core  of  any  subject  that  she 
took  in  hand.  While,  as  we  have  seen,  she  read  much, 
there  was  nothing  haphazard  about  it.  She  was 
always  investigating  some  subject.  When  she  visited 
the  libraries,  as  she  habitually  did,  she  knew  just  what 
she  wanted,  books  that  would  throw  light  upon  the 
topic  to  which  she  was  then  giving  special  attention. 
While  in  this  orderly  fashion  she  was  accumulating 
knowledge  in  many  fields  of  thought,  by  constantly 
writing  she  acquired  a  concise  and  forceful  style.  She 
always  kept  on  her  study-table  Rogct's  Thesaurus  of 

237 


English  Words  and  Phrases,  as  a  help  in  selecting  the 
words  best  fitted  to  express  her  conceptions  accurately. 
She  also  entered  with  avidity  into  all  my  literary  work, 
wrote  at  my  dictation  the  plans  of  toy  sermons,  read 
the  proof  of  what  I  gave  to  the  press,  and  was  my 
best,  most  unsparing  critic. 

Coupled  with  her  power  of  clear  thinking  was  large 
administrative  ability.  Everything  pertaining  to  the 
management  of  her  household  was  wisely  ordered. 
But  perhaps  the  severest  test  of  her  administrative 
skill  was  in  handling  her  servants  successfully.  Here 
a  humanitarian  and  an  economic  question  confronted 
each  other.  How  to  get  the  work  of  the  house 
promptly  and  thoroughly  done  and  at  the  same  time 
to  treat  justly  and  generously  the  employees  was  the 
problem.  To  solve  it  aright  she  first  of  all  took  her 
servants  into  her  confidence.  She  kindly  told  them 
what  they  were  expected  to  do,  showed  them  where 
they  were  to  work  and  the  utensils  they  were  to  use. 
She  looked  after  their  comfort,  providing  them  with 
good  sleeping  rooms  and  decent  beds.  She  however 
required  of  them  strict  fidelity,  which  they  usually 
rendered  in  response  to  her  considerate  care.  Not 
that  the  domestic  machinery  always  ran  smoothly. 
Sometimes  her  maids  took  French  leave,  sometimes 
she  had  to  dismiss  some  of  them  for  incompetence  or 
some  worse  fault,  but  most  of  them  had  for  her  gen 
uine  affection.  She  followed  with  tender  interest  a 
number  of  them  for  years  after  they  left  her  and 
rejoiced  greatly  when  some  of  them  rose  to  positions 

238 


of  influence  and  honor.  She  purposed  writing  and 
publishing  a  history  of  a  half  dozen  of  them  and  made 
notes  for  the  contemplated  volume,  but,  I  regret  to 
say,  left  it  unfinished;  but  it  is  a  joy  to  record  the 
fact  that  she  bestowed  Christian  care  on  those  that 
toiled  in  her  kitchen,  wash-room  and  bedchambers  and 
not  a  few  of  them,  having  rendered  faithful  service, 
rose  up  to  do  her  honor. 

Her  administrative  ability  not  only  manifested  itself 
in  the  management  of  her  servants  but  also  in  many 
of  the  ordinary  duties  of  every-day  life.  When  the 
family  were  to  go  on  a  picnic,  to  have  a  vacation  or 
to  make  a  journey  long  or  short,  she  at  once  had  in 
hand  every  detail.  What  many  esteem  drudgery,  she 
regarded  a  pleasure.  Lunch  baskets  or  trunks,'  as 
the  case  might  be,  were  quickly  and  neatly  packed 
and  the  time  for  starting  and  arrival  was  ascertained. 
Every  detail  was  provided  for  and  by  the  orderly 
execution  of  the  plan  the  expedition  was  made  a  joy 
to  all  its  participants. 

But  in  a  higher  sphere,  —  in  her  work  on  behalf  of 
the  women's  missionary  societies,  —  her  executive  tal 
ent  was  manifest  to  all.  Her  conduct  of  meetings  in 
the  churches  to  awaken  greater  interest  in  missions, 
her  suggestions,  when  she  labored  on  committees 
raised  to  consider  the  more  important  and  difficult 
problems  belonging  to  missions  in  Asiatic  countries, 
most  favorably  impressed  her  co-workers,  so  that  the 
Woman's  American  Baptist  Foreign  Mission  Society 
of  Chicago,  on  whose  Executive  Committee  she  served 

239 


for  two  years,  offered  her  its  secretaryship  and  urged 
her  to  accept  it.  To  her  it  was  an  enticing  opening. 
In  every  way  but  one  she  was  amply  qualified  for  the 
work.  I  encouraged  her  to  undertake  it.  But  after 
much  thought  and  prayer,  she  felt  herself  compelled 
to  decline  the  tempting  offer  from  lack  of  physical 
strength  to  discharge  its  weighty  public  duties. 

This  incident  in  her  career  brought  out  in  bold 
relief  a  trait  of  her  character,  that  we  have  already 
incidentally  mentioned,  her  extreme  modesty.  She 
always  instinctively  shrank  from  taking  part  in  public 
functions.  The  thought  of  reading  a  report  or  an  ad 
dress  or  of  speaking  before  any  considerable  audience 
quite  overwhelmed  her.  Still,  when  pressed  into  such 
a  service  she  always  did  it  well.  She  had  however  a 
very  humble  view  of  her  own  powers.  She  wrote 
much,  as  we  have  seen,  but  used  her  pen  sometimes 
perhaps  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  writing,  but  usually 
only  to  do  good,  seemingly  with  no  thought  beyond 
that.  If  I  spoke  to  her  of  the  merits  of  one  of  her 
essays  or  poems,  she  felt  quite  sure  that  it  was  an 
overestimation  by  a  fond  husband.  Still,  she  was  evi 
dently  conscious  of  her  power  to  bring  good  things  to 
pass,  but  instead  of  glorying  in  the  power  she  re 
joiced  rather  in  the  things  that  she  did;  and  if  she 
could  have  obtained  the  mastery  over  her  native 
diffidence,  she  might  have  become  an  able  public 
speaker. 

When  we  were  once  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  we 
visited  Hartshorn  Memorial  College.  The  students 

240 


assembled  in  the  Chapel  and  I  addressed  them.  At 
the  close  of  my  speech  the  young  ladies  called  for 
Mrs.  Anderson.  To  my  astonishment  she  at  once 
arose  and  began  to  speak  and  delivered  offhand  a 
clear,  simple,  practical  address  that  took  right  hold 
of  their  minds  and  hearts.  It  was  just  what  they 
needed  to  hear,  and  when  she  sat  down  they  gave  her 
prolonged  and  hearty  applause  by  clapping  their 
hands.  When  we  left  the  institution,  I  said  to  her, 
"  You  quite  surprised  me.  I  thought  that  you  could 
not  speak  in  public."  She  replied,  "  Some  things 
came  into  my  mind  that  I  wanted  to  say,  and  I  just 
said  them."  I  advised  her  to  keep  on  doing  that,  and 
she  said,  "Puff!"  giving  me  to  understand  that  my 
advice  was  to  her  mind  quite  absurd. 

Combined  with  her  consciousness  of  power  to  do 
things  worth  while  was  her  great  eagerness  to  under 
take  needed  enterprises.  Having  the  ability  to  bless 
others  she  felt  it  to  be  both  her  duty  and  privilege 
to  use  it.  This  she  did  to  the  limit  of  her  physical 
strength.  To  go  beyond  that,  she  had  learned  by 
sad  experience,  caused  her  days,  and  sometimes  weeks, 
of  nervous  prostration.  She  used  to  say  that  she  was 
tethered  to  a  stake  and  could  not  go  beyond  the  length 
of  her  chain.  She  longingly  kept  looking  beyond  and 
was  eager  for  the  race  from  which  she  was  held  in 
leash.  Notwithstanding  this  sore  limitation  of  her 
activities  she  seldom  if  ever  repined  at  her  lot.  Occa 
sionally  a  tear  stole  down  her  cheek  as  she  thought 
of  her  enforced  restraint,  but  that  was  like  the  passing 

241 


of  a  cloud  on  a  summer  day.  Eager  as  she  was  to 
contribute  more  largely  to  world-wide  benevolence, 
she  accepted  her  limitations  as  the  mysterious,  yet 
wise,  providence  of  God.  She  happily  found  much 
useful  work  that  she  could  do.  She  joyfully  did  her 
important  duties  in  directing  and  guiding  her  own 
household,  and  in  many  ways  did  much  for  the  build 
ing  up  of  the  kingdom  of  God  in  all  the  earth;  yet 
she  was  always  eager  to  do  more. 

But  Mary,  doing  her  lifework  under  such  rigorous 
limitations,  found  much  to  enhance  her  happiness  in 
the  material  creation.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  her  love  of  nature  was  intense,  and  her  appre 
hension  of  its  innermost  meaning  unusually  clear. 
She  gloried  in  the  clouds,  the  manifold  and  exquisite 
effects  of  light  in  the  hiavens,  on  the  mountains, 
the  lakes  and  the  ocean,  the  varied  and  delicate  colors 
of  the  sky,  the  glow  and  afterglow  of  the  sunsets, 
the  trees,  the  shrubs,  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  purling 
brooks,  the  dashing  mountain  streams,  and  the  plu 
mage  and  songs  of  the  birds. 

While  she  keenly  appreciated  for  its  own  sake  the 
intrinsic  beauty  of  these  multifarious  objects,  she  saw 
in  and  through  them  all  the  revelation  of  God.  She 
met  Him  face  to  face  in  all  the  beauties  and  sublimi 
ties  of  His  works.  He  unveiled  Himself  to  her  both 
in  the  violet  and  in  the  thunder-storm,  when  "  he 
bowed  the  heavens  and  came  down  and  darkness  was 
under  his  feet."  This  was  a  manifestation  of  His 
power.  Still  it  required  the  same  omnipotence  to  un- 

242 


fold  the  tiniest  blossom  on  the  hillside  or  in  the 
meadow,  but  in  this  quieter  display  of  His  omnipo 
tence,  God  revealed  also  His  love  of  beauty.  So  in  her 
passionate  love  of  the  beautiful  in  the  material  crea 
tion,  she  entered  into  conscious  fellowship  with  Him. 
And  since  God  was  in  Christ  and  through  Christ  all 
things  were  made,  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  nature 
were  the  revelation  to  her  of  her  Elder  Brother.  In 
her  communion  with  nature  she  came  into  a  higher 
communion  with  Him,  through  whom  and  unto  whom 
"  all  things  have  been  created,"  and  in  whom  "  all 
things  consist."  The  wisdom  with  which  the  objects 
of  creation  were  fashioned  were  His  wisdom,  the  sub 
limities  of  nature  were  the  manifestations  of  His 
almightiness,  the  beauties  of  the  sun  or  sky  or  flowers 
or  birds  were  but  glimpses  of  His  matchless  beauty. 
To  her  the  glory  of  the  divine  Artificer  and  ever  pres 
ent  worker  shone  through  all  the  objects  of  His 
creation. 

A  soul  so  in  love  with  nature  and  finding  God  in 
the  manifold  objects  of  His  creation,  naturally  saw 
Him  still  more  clearly  in  those  made  in  His  own 
image.  And  so  marked  was  her  sympathy  with  them, 
and  so  confident  was  her  hope  for  them,  that,  how 
ever  marred  by  sin  they  were,  she  rejoiced  in  what 
they  might  become  through  Jesus  Christ.  Having 
such  profound  sympathy  with,  and  hope  for,  men  of 
all  classes  and  conditions,  she  had  the  broadest  char 
ity  for  all.  While  she  quickly  apprehended  the  real 
characters  of  those  around  her  and  unerringly  de- 

243 


tected  all  shams,  upon  which  at  times  she  poured  forth 
her  withering  scorn,  she  was  quite  free  from  suspi 
cion  of  others.  Yet,  she  was  very  sensitive,  and 
sensitive  souls  are  apt  to  be  suspicious,  but  she  was 
sensitive  without  being  suspicious.  Her  habit  of  mind 
was  that  of  confidence  instead  of  distrust.  She  was 
frank,  sincere,  open-hearted,  and  always  inclined  to 
put  the  best  interpretation  on  the  words  and  acts  of 
others.  So  she  was  hopeful,  optimistic,  ever  looking 
on  the  bright  side  of  things.  To  her  the  darkest  cloud 
on  its  opposite  and  unseen  side  was  necessarily  ra 
diant  with  the  sunlight.  However  momentarily  dis 
couraging  the  prospect  might  be,  she  felt  quite  sure 
that  righteousness  would  ultimately  triumph  both  in 
individuals  and  society.  She  herself  walked  in  the 
light,  and  instead  of  living  in  apprehension  of  ap 
proaching  darkness,  she  was  always  expecting  an  even 
brighter  day. 

Combined  with  her  optimism  was  large  benevolence. 
She  had  but  little  property.  Her  father  left  her  only 
a  few  thousand  dollars.  This  I  invested  for  her.  For 
many  years  she  and  I  kept  separate  bank  accounts. 
I  never  meddled  with  hers  nor  she  with  mine,  while 
we  always  stood  ready  to  help  each  other  in  time  of 
need.  Neither  had  enough  to  excite  the  envy  of  our 
neighbors,  but  we  had  sufficient  to  meet  our  necessi 
ties  and  to  gratify  to  a  limited  extent  our  tastes.  We 
could  buy  some  books  and  pictures,  and  we  managed 
to  travel  considerably  both  in  our  own  country  and 
in  Europe  and  Asia.  But  for  mere  money  Mary  cared 

244 


nothing.  She  was  interested  in  it  only  for  what  it 
would  buy.  What  she  had  she  spent  freely,  not 
mainly  for  her  own  gratification  but  chiefly  for  the 
good  of  others.  If  any  of  her  children  needed  finan 
cial  help  they  found  mother's  heart  and  purse  open. 
If  any  of  her  neighbors  were  in  want,  she  esteemed 
it  a  joy,  to  the  extent  of  her  ability,  to  relieve  them. 
She  gave  with  open  hand  to  missions,  at  times  even 
beyond  her  means.  Her  whole  life  was  characterized 
by  giving.  To  others  she  gave  herself,  her  bodily 
strength,  her  powers  of  mind  and  heart,  her  money. 
She  never  gave  "grudgingly;"  she  was  a  genuine 
example  of  Paul's  "  cheerful  giver,"  whom  God  loves. 

The  following  incident  shows  how  little  she 
esteemed  money  for  its  own  sake  and  how  easily  she 
was  able  to  forego  even  that  which  money  would  pur 
chase.  When  we  built  our  house  at  Kenwood,  she 
had,  with  no  little  self-denial,  laid  aside  five  or  six 
hundred  dollars  to  perfect  the  furnishing  of  it.  This 
money  we  foolishly  put  into  a  personal  bank  that  had 
been  highly  recommended  to  us.  The  bank  soon 
shamefully  failed  and  her  money  was  lost.  With  no 
little  trepidation  I  apprised  her  of  this  financial 
disaster,  and  while  she  must  have  been  sorely  disap 
pointed,  she  treated  her  unexpected  loss  as  though 
it  were  the  merest  trifle,  not  worthy  of  a  moment's 
anxiety.  She  said,  "  It  is  nothing  but  a  little  money 
gone  and  we  must  not  care  for  it."  After  that  she 
never  even  once  referred  to  it. 

But  crowning  all,  she  was  a  downright,  clear-headed, 

245 


well-balanced  Christian.  She  had  a  positive,  out 
standing  Christian  experience,  not  confined  to  the  be 
ginning  of  her  spiritual  life  but  stretching  on  through 
all  her  days,  ever  growing  in  depth,  richness  and 
power.  When  converted  she  had  an  intimate,  per 
sonal  transaction  with  her  Lord.  He  called  her  by 
name  and  she  responded  by  joyfully  devoting  herself 
unreservedly  to  His  service.  Ever  after,  day  by  day 
she  communed  with  Him,  talced  with  Him  in  prayer, 
and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  endeavoring  to  save 
or  help  those  for  whom  He  died  and  now  lives  to  per 
fect  their  salvation. 

Her  faith  was  immovably  based  upon  the  crucified 
and  risen  Lord.  To  her  He  was  all  and  in  all.  Any 
act  or  word  that  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  slightest 
disparagement  of  Him,  at  once  awoke  all  her  powers 
in  His  defence.  By  her  faith  and  love  she  had  be 
come  one  with  Him,  so  that  she  could  say  with  the 
great  apostle,  "  For  me  to  live  is  Christ."  This  was 
the  hidden  spring  of  all  her  manifold  activities.  The 
love  of  Christ  constrained  her. 

Since  she  was  thus  united  to  Christ,  she  implicitly 
believed  His  word.  She  never  for  a  moment  doubted 
that  her  children  would  be  regenerated  and  saved.  A 
friend  asked  her,  "  Why  are  you  so  confident  of  this?  " 
She  unhesitatingly  replied,  "  Because  I  have  asked 
the  Lord  for  it,  who  said,  '  Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,' 
and  I  know  that  what  I  ask  is  according  to  His  mind, 
since  He  is  not  willing  that  any  should  perish."  The 


246 


Lord  honored  her  unshakable  faith  and  all  her  chil 
dren  early  in  life  came  into  the  Kingdom. 

With  like  faith  she  prayed  for  the  conversion  of 
her  twelve  grandchildren.  Before  her  death  five  of 
them;  by  their  voluntary  baptism,  had  declared  their 
faith  in  the  buried  and  risen  Saviour.  For  the  rest 
her  prayers  like  sweet  incense  are  preserved  in 
"  golden  bowls  "  before  God,  and  in  His  own  time  will 
be  answered.  No  true  prayer  is  ever  lost. 

Her  faith  was  also  strikingly  manifest  in  her  con 
quest  over  herself.  She  had,  as  we  have .  already 
noted,  naturally  a  fiery,  imperious  temper.  When  she 
first  gave  herself  to  Christ  for  a  time  she  had  a  hard 
struggle  to  overcome  it,  but  in  that  sharp  fight  she 
achieved  a  complete  victory.  To  me  it  was  an  ever 
growing  wonder  that  a  woman  so  high  strung,  with 
her  nervous  system  for  some  years  so  completely 
upset  that  the  tones  of  a  church  organ  sounded  to 
her  like  thunder,  and  the  notes  emitted  by  drawing 
the  bow  across  the  strings  of  a  violin  assailed  her  ears 
like  the  shrieks  of  a  locomotive,  could  move  on  un 
ruffled  and  cheerful  day  by  day,  often  grappling  with 
difficulties  that  might  have  tried  even  the  patience  of 
Job.  But  it  was  a  victory  won  through  her  intimate 
fellowship  with  her  divine  Lord.  She  had  become  a 
partaker  of  His  life  and  patience.  For  over  fifty-five 
years  we  walked  together  as  husband  and  wife  and  I 
cannot  now  recall  the  slightest  friction  between  us 
during  all  that  long  period,  or  any  faultfinding  or 
censorious  word  that  ever  fell  from  her  lips.  We 

247 


lived  in  perfect  accord,  in  cloudless  love.  We  be 
came  one  soul  in  two  bodies.  Our  honeymoon  never 
set,  it  never  waned  but  always  waxed.  The  same 
sweet  spirit  of  unvarying  kindness  was  ever  mani 
fested  by  her  to  her  children,  to  her  servants  and  to 
all  with  whom  she  had  to  do  in  the  church  and  in 
society.  At  the  same  time  she  had  her  own  inde 
pendent  views  on  all  questions  of  the  day  and,  being 
clear  and  incisive  in  thought,  on  all  proper  occasions 
fully  stated,  and  vigorously  defended,  them.  But  she 
did  this  without  narrowness  or  bitterness  and  so  sel 
dom  if  ever  offended  those  holding  opposite  opinions. 
This  luminous  soul,  her  husband's  heart  and  stay, 
her  children's  and  grandchildren's  pride  and  glory, 
honored  and  loved  by  all  who  knew  her,  left  us  sud 
denly.  Her  fatal  sickness  was  only  for  ten  minutes. 
I  was  called  to  Chicago  to  take  part  in  the  celebra 
tion  of  the  Quarter  Centennial  of  the  University. 
She,  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  visiting  once  more 
her  older  daughter  and  youngest  son,  together  with 
their  households,  went  with  me.  She  had  spent  a 
joyful  week  with  her  kith  and  kin.  Our  tickets  were 
purchased  for  our  return  trip  to  our  home  in  Newton 
Centre,  Massachusetts,  and  we  had  planned  to  leave 
Chicago  the  next  morning  at  10.30  A.M.  It  was  the 
eleventh  of  June,  a  beautiful  Lord's  Day.  In  the 
evening  we  were  having  our  final  visit  with  the  family 
of  our  youngest  son,  when,  without  the  slightest  pre- 
intimation,  the  summons  came  for  her  departure  from 
the  earth.  She  did  not  have  even  the  privilege  of 


bidding  us  good-by.  Instead  of  returning  the  next 
day,  as  she  had  purposed  to  do,  to  her  home  and  loved 
ones  in  the  East,  God's  plan  was  that  she  should  go 
that  night  to  the  "  better  country "  and  greet  her 
friends  there,  many  of  whom  had  long  waited  to  re 
ceive  her  into  the  "  everlasting  habitations."  "  Man 
proposes,  God  disposes." 

In  a  letter  that  she  left  with  her  will,  giving  me 
directions  as  to  the  disposal  of  some  of  her  things, 
she  wrote,  —  of  course  for  no  eye  but  mine,  still  to  me 
it  appears  fitting  that  I  should  insert  here  the  words 
of  her  heart,  words  that  seem  to  trickle  with  her 
tears,  but  in  which  we  catch  a  distinct  note  of  tri 
umph:  "  When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  gone,  but  you 
must  never  forget  that  I  shall  wait  and  watch  for 
you  every  day  until  we  meet  again.  I  shall  be  where 
it  is  your  greatest  desire  to  be,  where  I  see  the  face 
of  our  blessed  Lord  Jesus,  and  soon  you  will  be  with 
me,  ascribing  to  Him  who  loved  us  and  bought  us 
with  His  blood,  honor  and  glory,  world  without  end. 
And  so  I  only  say,  good-by  till  we  meet  again." 

These  parting  words  are  the  fitting  climax  of  this 
biographical  sketch.  They  are  the  overflow  of  her 
great  soul  as  she  passed  on  and  up  into  unending 
glory.  One  of  her  favorite  passages  of  Scripture  was: 
"The  things  which  are  seen  are  temporal;  but  the 
things  which  are  not  seen  are  eternal."  "  Clothed 
upon  with  our  house  which  is  from  heaven,"  she  now 
has  eyes  by  which  she  sees  the  things  that  are  eternal. 

Her   oldest   son,  Prof.   Frederick  L.   Anderson,   in 

249 


his  tribute  to  his  mother,  said:  "  But,  most  of  all, 
we  shall  miss  her  loving-kindness.  There  never  was 
a  more  faithful  and  affectionate  wife  nor  a  more  con 
siderate  and  loving  mother.  She  was  always  planning 
kindnesses,  and  their  number,  done  in  secret,  was 
legion.  Her  Christian  faith  was  deep  and  true.  She 
was  extraordinarily  well  versed  in  the  things  of  the 
Spirit.  Prayer  was  her  vital  breath,  and  simple  trust 
the  root  of  her  freedom  and  courage.  In  spite  of  her 
crippling  illness,  she  had  a  very  happy  life,  with  few 
great  sorrows,  and  her  going  at  the  end  of  a  perfect 
day  was  not  the  least  of  her  mercies.  And  she  was  as 
useful  as  she  was  happy." 


APPENDIX 

I  FOUND  among  her  papers  this  prayer  and  the  frag 
ment  of  a  prayer  that  reveal  her  view  of  the  relation 
of  God  in  Christ  to  nature. 

MY  LORD: 

It  has  pleased  Thee  to  reveal  Thyself  to  Thy  chil 
dren,  and  as  we  walk  abroad  with  Thee,  up  and  down 
the  summer  places,  or  cluster  around  the  winter  fire, 
Thou  dost  tell  us,  eagerly  listening,  of  Thy  works  in 
the  days  of  long  ago.  That  Thou  art  great  and  we 
but  lowly  is  as  nothing  to  Thee.  The  little  spaces 
between  monarch  and  serf  disappear  before  the  far- 
seeing  eyes  of  the  Lord  of  lords  and  King  of  kings. 

* 
250 


All  are  alike  humble  as  children  of  the  dust,  all  are 
alike  glorious  as  children  of  the  almighty  Father. 
And  so  I  may  praise  Thee,  may,  so  far  as  in  me  lies, 
recognize  Thy  plans  and  understand  Thy  methods 
of  work. 

How  precious  are  Thy  thoughts  unto  me,  O  God! 
how  great  is  the  sum  of  them!  I  walk  among  the 
mountains,  I  hear  the  mighty  psalm  of  the  forests, 
the  eternal  antiphonal  of  the  rushing  mountain  tor 
rents.  It  was  Thy  thought,  my  Redeemer,  that  made 
them  answer  to  my  soul,  deep  unto  deep.  I  mark 
the  long  reflection,  on  the  wavering  surface  of  the 
lake,  of  the  evening  star,  I  see  the  aurora  weaving 
mystic  dances  in  the  northern  sky,  the  white  wake 
of  the  comet  across  the  heavens,  and  I  recognize  the 
touch  of  Thy  finger,  O  Lover  of  Men.  Nothing  can 
affright  me,  nothing  can  make  me  desolate  or  for 
saken,  Thou,  Thou,  my  Brother  and  Friend,  hast 
made  all  these  things. 

But  and  if  my  weakness  bids  me  remember  how 
small  I  am,  like  the  flower  of  the  grass  that  the  wind 
passes  over  and  it  is  gone,  then  I  note  the  shading 
of  the  colors  on  the  poppy  blossom,  I  breathe  the 
fragrance  of  the  white  violet.  I  note  the  hidden 
beauties  of  the  geode.  The  very  flower  of  the  grass, 
to  which  Thou  hast  likened  my  life,  is  as  azure  as 
the  sky,  and  I  see  before  me  the  glories  of  Thy 
thoughts.  With  Thee,  the  tiniest  atom  is  as  worthy 
of  Thy  thought  and  Thy  perfect  beauty,  as  Arcturus 
or  Aldebaran  the  Light-bearer. 

2"?  I 


It  is  not  some  far-away  God,  who  has  made  all  these 
things.  It  is  Thyself,  Fairest  Lord  Jesus.  Every  lily 
of  the  field  reveals  Thee  near,  is  a  poem  that  Thou 
hast  written. 

The  fragrance  of  sweet  peas  recalls  ever  to  my 
heart  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand.  I  never  see  the 
humble  portulaca  flowering  across  the  garden  beds, 
but  I  see  before  me  my  father,  who  loved  it. 

A  strain  of  music  heard  at  night  on  the  river,  the 
song  of  an  evening  thrush,  the  feather  of  smoke  from 
a  far-away  camp,  seen  across  the  trees,  each  of  these 
is  a  link  that  binds  me  forever  to  those  whom  I  have 
loved  and  may  not  see  again. 

But  all  things,  every  thing  I  see,  or  hear  or  know, 
leads  my  mind  to  Thee,  my  Lord,  who  made  all  things, 
and  without  whom  was  nothing  made  that  was  made. 
For  this  I  bless  and  praise  Thee.  Nothing  stands  be 
tween  me  and  Thee  in  the  great  visible  creation.  To 
no  angel  was  delegated  this  beautiful  work.  Thou 
hast  taken  delight  in  all  this  wonderful  unfolding  of 
Thy  cosmic  thought.  Thou  hast  carefully  fitted  to 
gether  the  mosaic  of  the  flowering  gardens  of  the 
Sierra.  Thou  hast  made  the  sea  and  the  dry  land. 
Thy  thoughts  stretch  from  eternity  to  eternity.  Yet 
I,  even  I  —  my  life  is  one  of  Thy  thoughts  — I  am 
poor  and  needy  but  the  Lord  thinketh  upon  me  and 
saves  my  soul  from  death,  mine  eyes  from  tears,  my 
feet  from  falling. 

Accept  the  adoration  of  the  least  of  Thy  children. 


252 


MY  LORD: 

I  would  thank  Thee  to-day  not  only  for  Thy  won 
derful  creation,  which  stretches  above,  beneath  and 
around  me,  but  also  for  the  adorable  method  which 
Thou  didst  adopt,  so  that  hidden  gifts  are  always 
being  discovered  ready  to  be  revealed  at  the  best  time. 

Not  only  were  the  flowers  and  the  fruits  planted, 
as  in  Eden,  for  the  use  of  Thy  children,  but  they  were 
so  framed  that  their  latent  sweets  and  perfections 
should  gradually  be  developed  by  culture,  and  every 
garden  become  a  delight  to  the  mind  as  well  as  to  the 
senses  of  man. 

Every  grain  of  corn,  every  blade  of  grass  contains 
potentialities  that  ages  of  experiments  have  not  ex 
hausted.  When  the  cactus  is  a  desert  plant  its  thorns 
protect  it,  but  man  may  get  rid  of  these  when  the 
cattle  need  food.  There  is  bread  in  the  wheat,  there 
is  wine  in  the  grape,  there  is  every  dye  of  the  sunset 
heavens  in  the  coal.  Like  well  wrapped  gifts  on  the 
Christmas  tree,  every  field  and  mountain  is  waiting  to 
surprise  and  delight  Thy  searching  children. 

Thou  didst  hide  the  ruby  in  the  rock,  the  diamond 
in  the  gravel,  the  gold  in  the  pocket  of  the  hill,  the 
coal  and  the  light-giving  oil  in  the  darkness  of  the 
earth.  The  marble  of  Carrara,  the  sugar  in  the  maple- 
tree,  these  too  were  Thy  secret  gifts  to  man. 

Men  —  and  they  too  the  work  of  Thy  hand  —  may 
call  Thee,  Nature.  They  shrink  from  the  use  of  Thy 
great  name.  It  may  be  from  awe,  or  from  unbelief, 
but  can  Nature  create?  Is  Nature  God?  Has  Nature 

253 


a  soul  or  even  personality?  Is  the  garment  in  which 
Thou  dost  reveal  Thy  power  and  love,  Thyself? 
Behold,  the  stars  are  but  the  dust  that  shines  at  the 
touch  of  the  finger  of  God!  The  lilies  of  the  field, 
who  painted  them? 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


II  mil  inn  illinium 
A     000  535  968     2 


